"Gettin' Thick" & Other notes on Sensuality

Being raised in Atlanta’s Afrocentric community, there is not a section of my childhood that was not accompanied by the music and rhythms of African dance. In my living room there is a newspaper clipping of an approximately 2 years old Ra staring blankly at a camera with hands attentively placed near the center of a Djembe drum. I learned to walk in what was once the African Djeli, a piece of pan-African heaven tucked between the busy storefronts that face The Mall West End alongside Ralph David Abernathy Blvd. As I got older I attended classes and workshops, Spirit Dances, and spirited audiences at the annual Malcolm X festival.  I was taught by Pearl Premus progenies who had returned to Atlanta in the spirit of African tradition to share their knowledge and allow younger generations to venerate a culture that had too long gone undervalued in contemporary American society.

But this post is not a manifesto for the Afrocentric community.  My second week in Accra concluded with a trip to the Calabash Afridance work space. We arrived prepared to dance, sporting sneakers and yoga pants. We had been dancing since the first day of orientation so there were no more petrified faces from those whose bodies were not accustomed to moving so freely. But as we sat in front of the drummers I noticed that they were all male. Traditionally many African customs designate gender specific roles in celebration. Drummers are typically male. But my childhood proximity to Gye Wienmata (sp) as the foremost authority on African dance gave me a completely different understanding and expectation. As the dance presentation began, I noticed that the rhythms were familiar to me and as I looked at the dancers I recognized and could even predict some of their movements. But being socialized to seeing female bodies carry the large and organized burst of energy characteristic of African dance I had learn to see the moves as feminine and had a moment of joyful confusion as my eyes readjusted to the fluid movement of muscular calves and prominent biceps.

The other day my beautiful and handcrafted facebook timeline blessed me with a quote from James Baldwin on Sensuality:

"The word “sensual” is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread."

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the making of bread.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesabal131769.html#Pqq8XhBGrmzpuBUA.99

Watching the male dancers (and so many other moments in Ghana with specific regard given to Kumasi) I have been a witness to the sensuality of existence. Something as commonplace as sweat, a task as menial as hanging laundry on the line or carrying a bucket down a dirt road becomes an exercise in appreciating and enjoying the gift that is the black body. When eating, as my palette shift towards cravings for shito and fresh pepper, my waistline and thighs expand to accommodate the extra servings of fufu and I am more comfortable and indulgent than I have ever been. This isn’t to say I don’t spend random increments of idle time doing crunches and squats in my room, but I am enjoying so much of what I eat and how I look that those 6-pac aspirations are becoming less of a nuisance. Besides having spent longer than I’m willing to admit narrow-hipped and in denial about my lack of ass, I am welcoming Ghana’s curves with optimism and the belief that all the walking, running and dancing I’m doing will even things out.

In my program we’ve talked a lot about the African standard of beauty in comparison to the American standard. Of course globalization has forced some overlap and I can’t buy lotion from a supermarket here without checking for skin lighteners. But as to be expected, Ghana doesn’t have the same regard for Barbie-esque proportions. About 94.598 % of the women I’ve seen have had heavenly dimensions ranging from coke bottle, to hour-glass, to just overall “Dammmmmn.” For some Americans, Africa’s appreciation for a more liberal body type translates to “fat acceptance” and what I’ve observed is white women with “non-traditional” figures being made into false idols and flaunted, by themselves and Ghanaian men, as sexual anomalies.  By and large, it is none of my concern. Body image and sexuality are personal matters that deserve some respite from socio-political critique. I understand that everyone’s journey of self love and acceptance looks differently and it is neither my place nor intention to cast judgment.
But I will say that I find some twisted solace in knowing that in Ghana I am physically attractive, because I’m physically attractive and not because of any racialized fetish. I admit that it’s annoying and uncomfortable to watch women lauded for such a superficial reason. It’s even more upsetting to watch the oblivious way white women accept this attention and parade it around as if it is something I should covet.

Inversely, when clubbing our first night in Kumasi I noticed how violently some of my white female classmates responded to the unwarranted touches and attention of men on the dancefloor. At first I thought it funny then I had to stop and think about why I found it weird that any women would be appalled that a stranger touched her. I concluded that as a woman of color my body has never been my own. It has it sacred spaces and “no no squares,” but It has always been something I was trained to protect. I expect men to touch me on the dancefloor, welcome it if the song is right, but I know that the second I feel uncomfortable or threatened it is MY duty to draw the line and remove myself from the situation. I have a higher threshold for invasion. Even typing that is a startling reminder of the presupposed “sanctity of white womanhood” in contrast to that of women of color. Wow. There is so much in this last paragraph that needs to be explored but I will leave that for another medium.

"We Should All Go Back With Dreadlocks" and other first impressions

Joeshmail did not want to leave me at the airport. She turned away hesitantly after making me promise to call and text her once I had met up with the group and was headed to Legon. I nervously straddled my leopard print suitcase trying to make contact with all my belongings as I sat in the metal seats of the arrivals lobby. I was alone for about 30 minutes before I got a call from Kwame, an SIT staff member who was already at the airport waiting for this semester’s students to arrive. I was anxious. The car ride from Labadi to the airport felt too short. Like a chapter closed too quickly, its characters left underdeveloped and the reader trying to figure out what she’s missed. This was the end of Ghana as I knew it. The end of taxi rides from Labadi to Osu, of impromptu Ga lessons and girl talk with Joeshmail, of the anonymity of being alone, dark skinned and beautiful in a place where both dark skin and beauty are in surplus. Those first two weeks I was nobody’s “Obruni” or “Brofonyo.” I was a sister, a daughter, just another woman walking the streets of Labadi. My tongue sullied this sense of oneness. My accent and failure to understand when spoken to in the language of the area made eyes open wide and taxi prices increase. Most days I could not be fooled. “Daabi,” I’d say before haggling for the correct prices. Other days I couldn’t be bothered, excepting this ‘obruni tax’ as the easiest way to get where I was going.

But as I scanned the airport crowd for members of my group I was suddenly aware of how different things would be. Once they all arrived, I realized my calculations had been incorrect. There were 15 of us, but I was pleasantly surprised by an additional Black woman and a White man. I smiled and greeted them.  Comedically apologizing for my obnoxious over coordination, I had worn a Cheetah print dress which matched my suitcase, backpack, and travel pillow. I did not plan on meeting the group in full on cheetah girl attire but as a friend of my said when I texted him about the predicament “at least a brought my whole self to the table…no surprises.” As we boarded the tros-tros a white voice croned in excitement, “we should all go back with dreadlocks!” White laughter ensued. This jovial comment triggered in me a sort of “fight or flight” response. I murmed something like, “seriously?” Then fell silent. I wish I would have had the wit and energy for a proper comeback. These were the people I would be studying and traveling with for the next 4 months and I immediately questioned my decision to sign up for this program.

Orientation flew by awkwardly. The forced smiles and feigned interest in each other’s lives. I have always found small talk to be unnecessary, but that seemed to be the chosen way to communicate amongst the group. The only place that felt safe was my hotel room. My roommate, who I now affectionately refer to as Queen Mother Marquita, filled the room with Chicago-bred southernisms. We shared stories about our lives, about being progressive black women on our small liberal arts universities, about what brought us to Ghana and how happy we were to be experiencing this together. The next day Rashida joined in our bonding session and the “Black Girls Abroad Society” was born. In my hotel room, underneath a gorgeous portrait of Naomi Campbell, we created a safe space to release all that had been hiding behind our smiles.

It pained us to here the white voices cry about the heat, lack of toilet paper, and other things that made them “appreciate all that they had at home.” For us this trip was more than that. This was to be a semester of self-discovery and socio-political analysis. We weren’t here to gain a new appreciation for our privilege and the ignorance of our peers was unnerving. In the classroom I was quiet to avoid confrontation.  Our “Life in Ghana” check-ins were full of trivial overstatements and accounts of naivety. At the Kunta Kinte Highlife Club I was quiet and sober, laughing periodically at offbeat angular dancing. In the taxi home I found myself in an argument that I thought I was avoiding. One of my classmates had grown defensive to everything I said and seemed to be trying to reject the idea that her city, the murder capital of America, was socio-economically segregated. Her resistance to the reality of her hometown did not surprise me, but the vigor with which she contradicted points I never made was hilariously pitiful. At the beach I was treated by African men as some sort of key to unlocking the white pussy that surrounded me. It pained me to see how low these beautiful mahogany skinned men would stoop for the sexual attention of white women. It hurt even more that the presence of white women somehow superseded my sexuality.

Uncomfortable is the best word I can use to describe how I’ve felt this first week. I found some solace in phone calls home and daily meetings with the BGAS, but being in a program that so blatantly caters to white Americans has caused a great deal of mental frustration and it is just the beginning. It wouldn’t be fair to say that all the white folks in this class are unbearable. The more one-one encounters I’ve had the more depth I’ve discovered.

Our first assignment was a mission statement, to discuss what we expect for ourselves and for the group. I wrote mine on the second night of orientation:

This semester I am committing myself to being open to experience. To ensure and maintain a cohesive group I will be clear, open and honest about my perspective, needs and boundaries. This being my third trip to Ghana I feel like a pre-teen who feels both confident about her understanding of the world and overtly aware of all she has yet to learn. I see this semester with SIT Ghana as an opportunity to add knowledge and depth to my relationship with the country. I will take full advantage of every opportunity to learn and/or try something new along with sharing the things that come quickly to me and not being afraid to ask for the help of my peers.

                I am expecting that as a group we approach our time in Ghana open and honest with a keen since of awareness to the ways identity (with specific consideration given to Americaness, Whiteness & Blackness) impact how are seen and approached as we travel. I expect a safe space where concerns can be discussed frankly and maturely without gossip, anxiety or anger. I expect to be approached directly if someone takes offense to anything I say/do and I expect my feelings to be respected when I approach others. Overall, I think positive energy will be one of the most important things that holds us together as a group. I know I personally don’t take well to complaining or insensitivity so I hope that as a group we can commit to really thinking about the things we say/do before we act. This journey is very important and personal to me (as I am sure it is for my peers), and I will not tolerate anything that intrudes upon my peace. I expect that we hold each other accountable while simultaneously giving each other the space to follow our own spiritual, mental & emotional paths through this beautiful country.

Running Home - Ghana 2014

The air in Ghana is sweet with the stench of daily duties. Metal baskets sit heavy on the heads of market women whose hip sway in the sultry normalcy of tradition. Sweat pools on the muscles of men laying beneath a staircase in Osu. There is not an inch of Ghana that does not stimulate at least one sense. Color splashed cloth sold on the other side of an open gutter. The grayish-white rush of excrement and bath water flowing beneath planks of wood laying bridge-like alongside one another. At this point, they are the only thing I’m scared of. If I make it through 5 months in Ghana without falling in a gutter this trip will be complete and all the other things I discover and experience will come as a welcomed bonus.

My first two weeks in Ghana before the official start of my SIT: Social Transformation & Cultural Expression program have been full, hot, and relaxing. I told someone that I practically ran out of Atlanta and it’s true. The week before I left was kind of overwhelming that you appreciate for the way it brings you closer to your loved ones, but none the less I was exhausted and dangerously close to turning of and shutting myself in. But there was no time for that. After a quality soak in the last functional bath tub I’ll see for the next 4.5 months I had accepted what I needed to accept and was ready to start this journey.

No matter how fast you leave there will always be love – From the smiles and laughter shared with my sister-queens (& king) as we hastily climbed waterfalls setting the scene for projects to come, to the familiar awkward fumble of me and my parents making our way to the airport. I used to get so sick with separation anxiety that I’d cry violently before every flight, now I breathe. Sometimes the tears come, sometimes they don’t. This time I was so calm it frightened me. It was a weird combination of peace, exhaustion and excitement that almost felt like a high.

There were two flights and a brief layover between me and a country that’s always felt like home. When the final plane got close enough that I could look out the window and see the dust red roads and trees, all I could do was smile and give thanks.

My Ghanaian sister Joeshmail met me at the airport. We got kelewele and laughed and hugged away all the time that had passed since we last saw each other. After two days in Osu we moved to Labadi. Some things have changed since the summer of 2012, the kids are older, there’s a mall on Oxford Street  & I can’t find some of my favorite street vendors. But all in all, LA feels the way I remembered it – the busy streets, clusters of houses, random bits of pop culture and religion juxtaposed on shop windows. I’m living in the shadow of The Church of Pentecost Headquarters, a chapel and office complex that looks like it could rival any Atlanta mega-church.

The irony of my living situation is that I spent the majority of last semester reading case studies about Ghanaian Pentecostalism and now it’s literally in my backyard. But that’s one reason I’ve structured my year this way. Spent 3 months in London experiencing Africa academically and now I’m here experiencing Africa physically and spiritually. Studying in Ghana will be interesting as I’m pseudo-familiar with the land and have done most of the tourist-y things before but I will undoubtedly have a level of access to Ghanaian art and culture that I would have missed if had just come on my own.

I won’t say I’m looking forward to traveling and studying with a group of Americans. There are maybe 15 of us – 2 women of African descent, 1 white male, and around 12 white women. But I’m approaching this as close to unbiased as I can get and open to experience. Plus, I know it will likely make for some wonderful rants/blog post.

I’m excited about my 3 host families and my month long independent study project. I’m excited about the two weeks I’ll be here after my program ends. I’m excited about my family coming (speaking this into existence) & celebrating my birthday on a beach in Ghana.

I’m excited about my latest baby, Project Ohemaa. A healing and empowerment centered creative writing program for SHS girls that I’m hoping to run in collaboration with the Attukweii Art Foundation and some other Ghanaian groups and creatives I’ve been blessed to work with.

I’m excited to be here, twenty years full of inspiration. As endless as 20 feels, I know now more than ever that tomorrow is never promised. Fred Hampton was assassinated by the police at 21, my cousin Ashley in a fatal car accident months before her 21^st birthday.

I will turn 21 at the end of this journey and have committed this next year (& all years to come) to being an ACTIVE proponent of the dreams of my ancestors. Living the story my ink tells, making things happen and not just writing pretty words about them.

Stay Tuned, ya’ll. There’s greatness to come.

T(-1 week)

7 days till i'm on a plane headed stateside -- away from this city and the foggy allure of the unfamiliar. 7 days to pack away all the peace I've found in these iced alley's, the reflections that sketched themselves into street art. 7 days to perfume my skin in the stench of a deluded fantasy that cracked open to reveal a truth more beautiful than I could ever leave behind. 7 days to make my spine a monument of the lessons I learned when my back could bend no further. 7 days to create. 7 days to remember. 

I am looking forward to the love that will greet me when I land. I am sick with visions of myself curled in my mothers bosom all 20 years of childlike adoration pouring out of my eyes. The warmth I will feel when returning to the first place I called home. I get to love on all my friends. I get to breathe, relax, and create without fear of looming deadlines or exchange rates.

My biggest fear is leaving behind a piece of myself or rather The Peace of My Self that I stumbled into on one of these lonely night in Dinwiddy. I have grown so much. Released so much. Become so much and I am absolutely terrified of reverting back to the me I was before leaving America. But that's silly and belittling of me to think. I cannot let Queen Elizabeth's territory take all the credit. 

I have led myself through every breakthrough and breakdown. Me and God and the God that is me are responsible for this feeling of maturity and divinity. I can never abandon myself or leave myself behind because that is not how the self works.

Through these sandpaper lectures rubbing my conscious raw only to be salted with white European liberalism and guilt, through the bouts of pettiness, and broken bank accounts I have shed a great deal of attachment to things that would have normally pulled me into fragments and left me at mercy of some kind broom to be swept up. 

I have lived! I have partied with legends and befriended creative saints who I know will go on to change the world. Once in a while i'll pop up on their timelines and they'll remember that little burst of Southern breeze that came through sweet as a peach and swearing like her parents used to pacify her with whisky.

Will never again be the thing that keeps me quiet. I will never again be content with less than I deserve. I have seen folks not that much older than me cultivating their own promised lands and I cannot rest until mine has turned to Eden. 

7 days to make sure it all sticks. 7 days till forever.

Shay & I at Numbi AFRO-DISCO

You feel it in ya waist: A Weekend of Afro-Beat (Nov 15-17)

I was blessed by my UK WonderTwin, the phenomenal Caro, with the opportunity to attend two dope Afro-Beat concerts. If you're not hip to all the current diasporic musical happenings, Afro-Beat has grown a long way from the Yoruba influenced funk and Jazz of Fela Kuti.

In 2013, Afro-Beat is a genre of a new wave of pop/rap/African fusion. It is the music that supports global dance trends like Azonto and gives voice to a new African identity that has grown up within a broader cultural soundscape. Afro-Beat pulls from both tradition and modern conventions to forge a sound that hits you right in the lower back. Each tune encourages the kind of soul stirring movement that can only be attributed to blood of those who danced revolution and survival throughout the western coast of the mother continent.

I got my first taste of Afro-Beat while volunteering in Ghana the summer of 2012. I remember my first night at "Fish & Friends" a pub in Accra, eating Indomie and watching Serge and the boys dance. That summer my favorites were "Over Again" by Edem & "Chop My Money Remix" P.Square ft. Akon. Before leaving I was gifted a USB full of Afro-Beat hotness. Everything from WizKid to R2Bees to FuseODG. On campus, my Ghanaian brethren Vincent would indulge in random bouts of Azonto with me. We even recorded a video in the snow in an attempt to go viral.

I love an energized crowd. I love watching people give themselves to music, let it take them somewhere as real and as imagined as nostalgia. Afro-Beat does that, even in a relatively sedate London crowd. The GTBank sponsored Wande Coal concert started slow. The crowd was smaller (& younger) than expected but the music was good and I was in lovely company. While Caro had run to check on a friend, one of the girls standing next to us asked me a question about drinks at the venue. I answered her and watched her face light up (my words in red/thoughts in italics):

 "I love our accent" "Where are you from?" I reply, "The states" "Where about?" "Atlanta" "Are you Ghetto?!?!?" "Usually people who sound like you are ghetto," she says with a look of excited admiration. I am stunned. What does she mean? Is she asking If am poor? I say "I don't know...maybe" "Oh, well I had a friend who sounds like you, and she, she was like ghetto" "oh." She goes on to ask where am I from again, this time targeting my country of origin. I say "well...Ghana in theory" She's a bit confused but doesn't ask anymore questions. Her friend says she thought I was Nigerian "Could be" I smile and nod back into my bubble and wait for Caro to return.

The crowd grew as we got closer to the headliner, and by that point it didn't matter. I was attempting to mimic the moves of the two all female dance crews that had graced the stage. Training my body to the new movements, this was not your typical twerkfest. It was a less sex-centric high powered movement of hips, legs, feet and hands. It was the creative genius of a body in rapid harmony with the music. All the varied dances and their respective "theme songs" reminded me a bit of the Snap Music craze of the mid-00s.

Wande Coal is more classic than contemporary. His carrier kicked of in 2008 under the tutelage of industry Heavyweights Don Jazzy & D'banj. Regardless he is still a respected and enjoyed presence throughout the Afro-Beat soundscape. During his set he brought out current international Afro-Beat superstar FuseODG. WonderTwin and Fuse have a special relationship and his performance was a complete surprise. His performance was great, but I was more enthralled by the show of love and excitement Caro put on in the audience.

From L-R: DJ Mika, Gabrielle (Music Mangment), Caro/WonderTwin, Me

Two days later Caro was to event manage an Afro-Beat Showcase in Camden Town. My time in the audience was split between watching her run things and watching the performers. Same waist shaking energy this time in a more intimate setting. Caro graces every project she touches with excellence and professionalism. She has such a good spirit and it is well appreciated by her friends, artist, and clients. I am blessed to have connected with her. The concert ran smoother than smooth. The artist, some of them echoing performances they had given at the Wande Coal show, were energetic and the crowd responded beautifully.

That weekend foreshadowed the fieldwork I will be doing next term in Ghana. I am so inspired and entertained by this new cultural movement and I can't wait to merge my lived experience with it with all my anthropological insights. As Fuse say's "This.Is.New.Africa" and I am a grateful to bare witness.

Late Post RE: The Royal African Society's Film Africa Nov 1- Nov 10

Nov 1st marked the start of The Royal African Society's (RAS) 10-day film festival. My internship, Numbi Arts, has been a long time collaborator with RAS and was asked to run a free workshop during Film Africa Family Say on Saturday November 2nd. I had been anticipating the film festival since my first meeting with the Numbi family. The elaborate foldout pamphlets, composed of showtimes and stills from films, wall paper my campus. Films came from each edge of the continent, exploring the life, the love, the joy, and the anguish of African peoples from all angels. I had planned a trip to Rome,Italy for the end of the week so my participation in the festival was limited to the first 3 days. I was most excited about seeing Andrew Dosunmu's Mother of George, but I hesitated to book my tickets and they sold out. Instead I booked a ticket to a showing of 5 short films including Akosua Adoma Owusu's Kwaku Ananse. 

Saturday, I arrived at the venue to support Numbi with the set-up and running of a 1950s style African Photo Studio. We set the background positioned our props and waited for traffic to pick up. One of my classmates, a loving warm spirited woman of Congolese decent, was volunteering with the Royal African Society. She came over and we chatted while the photographer snapped a few test shots.

Between sips of mint tea and conversation on the artistic development of black youth, I circled the room in search of props and encouraging folks to capitalize on the free photos Numbi was offering. A group called "Open The Gate" had organized an African market. To my left was a woman selling hand crafted Ankara print children's clothing, to my right were hand made dolls that reminded me of the playmates my mother created for me while I was a toddler. Black baby-dolls with natural hair will forever be an item of cultural importance. If "playing house" is when we first come into awareness with our capacities for love and our maternal energies, being able to see, carry, and love a child that looks like you as you were fashioned by the Creator, surely lays the foundation for any conception of self-love.

Of the people who came through our photo-booth were children, bloggers, families, designers, and other enterprising creatives. I enjoyed watching them interact with the camera. 

The next day I took a bus to Hackney Picturehouse to participate in the less active side of the festival. I have never been decidedly "into" short films. Kwaku Anase has received a lot of black/african tumblr hype and I was excited about the reworking of one of the many Ananse The Spider stories that narrated my childhood. All the films were cogent and entertaining though some left me hanging on unfulfilled plot lines.

Kwaku Ananse, directed by one beautiful Ghanaian creative, starring another (JoJo Abot), re-birthed in me an impassioned longing to return to Ghana. It is a strange sort of homesickness that is not at all unfamiliar, having 'theorectical roots' in a place you are generations of violence and exploitation removed from gives way to a series of odd sentiments that I have been blessed with the opportunity to make sense of. 

I left the theater ready for the next chapter in this journey. My time in London is coming to an end (I will be boarding a plane literally some 30 days from tomorrow) and after a brief respite in the States I will be off again. There is so much stirring, in me/around me, that I know this time will be different...perhaps even more meaningful.I still have a lot to do to ensure I make the most of it.

*logs off blog to work on grant proposal*

Not Bad For A Muliagna: Roma, Italia 2013

from Mexican admirers, to stolen legacies- I came, I saw, I conquered.

The Yellow Youth Hostel: Conveniently located near Termini Metro station, this was home throughout my stay. There was bar and mini club for residents only. First time clubbing solo made memorable by a twerking Italian girl and a moderately creepy Mexican admirer.

 Ruins in the Roman Sun: It was so hot. I welcomed the sun and the sweat. I miss it dearly and I have been in london for less than 24 hours :/

 Posse Brethren D'andre Starring in "All Hail Ceaser's Home, Nigga": This boy has been such an important part of this term abroad. Just a little bit of home running around Europe with me. Didn't realize this until he walked me to the bus stop and the separation anxiety I thought I had grown out of reduced me to a bag of tears waiting to board my shuttle.

 Roma, Italia: Shot from the ruins. Just a sample of the beauty and history that surrounded us.

 Colosseum : like a postcard, innit?

 Trevi Fountain: So awe-inspiring. Really touristy and really romantic. I made a wish. Felt like a kid again. A really blessed kid with a family that never ceases to support my dreams. Much love to my mother for making this trip possible for me and to my Daddy for reminding me the value of experience over material "comforts."

 Pantheon: Sooooo Big


Brandeis in The Vatican Museum: Such a blessing to reunite with these lovely ladies. They are studying in Perugia and LIVING LIFE according to all the stories I heard. 

 AnkhsOnAnkhsonAnkhs

 "When Die Bury Me Some Sarcophagi" 

 Random Ceiling in the Vatican Museum