As if by reflex, I grab the keys off the kitchen counter and toss them to my sister. A frequent inhabitant of the passenger seat, I am more than happy to relinquish control of the car. We head into the sticky garage, and the familiar humidity of a Rhode Island summer greets us. Our routine begins. My sister turns on the car, opens the sunroof, and lowers the windows. I plug in my phone and promptly get to work on Spotify. We have about a 15 minute drive ahead of us, so I carefully curate a four song queue, and add one more for good measure.
"Bet On It" comes on and we both instantly smile at the
There is a sapidness (see: tang, zestiness) so strong it feels like a brain freeze in that first bite of food I taste after a long run. It could be a vanilla almond protein bar or a room temperature banana, but they all deliver the *zing* of a sour skittle that feels like eating ATP itself. Food (as August Wilson has shown) is central to sustaining life, in all senses of the word. Blessed with our 4000 taste buds, I deign to say there is no better way for us to take communion, show love, or be the universe experiencing itself, than with food. It’s one of the most elementary ways we know to exist—eat, survive.
Many of our physical sensations parallel the experience of eating. In Feature, the writer savors the comforts of nostalgia and confronts the necessity
beat. Although we are driving at under 30 miles an hour in our small suburban neighborhood, our energy is high as we start belting out the words to the soundtrack of arguably the best summer movie of all time, High School Musical 2. We don’t miss a single lyric, smiling through the entire three and a half minutes. At some point during the bridge, I am overcome with joy. The sonic blast from the past, along with the sun shining through the car and our impending trip to our favorite ice cream shop, is overwhelmingly blissful.
The same thing happens with the next song, and the next, and the next, starting with “He Could Be the One,”
of letting go. In Narrative, one writer discusses how she values and collects delectable secrets, delving into how their exchange facilitates vulnerability and deepens relationships; another writer reflects on the relationship between food and body image, and how it influences self-acceptance, structured like a 6-course meal. In Arts and Culture, one writer discusses their father and his stories of Zhuge Liang, a legendary strategist in Chinese history and literature, using them as a way to explore what it means to hold and create these heroes. Another writer discusses how social media and tourism has tainted our appreciation for beauty, through her journey to the Vatican Museum, Sistine Chapel, and greater Rome. Finally, in Lifestyle, a beautiful collection of short memoir-style short stories about spring, and a crossroads-themed crossword.
from our favorite childhood show, Hannah Montana. For 15 minutes, we aren’t stressed out about going back to college next week. We’re back in elementary school, carefree and protected. I am amazed by how powerful nostalgia can be; despite being home, I am inundated with a feeling resembling homesickness.
I’ve always been sentimental; browsing through old photographs and perusing my very crowded memory box are foolproof ways to cheer me up when needed. But I can’t help but wonder why I seek solace by reminiscing about a birthday
While you read, imagine enjoying a fresh raspberry sorbet or an icy cold blueberry mojito on a hot day like today, the flavorful combination of vinegary, spicy, and creamy in a laksa or Pad Thai, or the crunch of a perfectly leavened sourdough with homemade butter sprinkled with salt. Gustatory experiences never fail to enrich life as it goes, treat yourself and someone you love to a pleasure so primary, so primal, so supreme pizza.
Heaping M&Ms and Oreos into my ratty sundae, Kimberly Liu
Editor-in-Chiefparty, a family vacation, or a school field trip—moments in my life that are long gone. In theory, I could seek the same comfort by thinking about the wonderful things about my life in the present, but the feelings that ensue from nostalgia cannot be replicated. They are tender and uplifting, and yet they evoke an unavoidable twinge of heartache.
The immense strength of these nostalgic feelings has always been recognized. Centuries ago, this wistful longing for the past was viewed as a type of paranoia, leading physicians to classify nostalgia as a disease that needed to be cured. Symptoms included melancholy, loss of appetite, or even hallucinations of past memories. Nostalgia “outbreaks” often occurred in soldiers, and the powerful desire for the comfort of their families often got them sent home.
While the modern understanding isn’t as extreme, nostalgia is nonetheless a deeply emotional influence. Nostalgia is most strongly evoked through the senses— listening to a playlist of throwbacks, smelling a favorite childhood meal, walking past the playground where recess used to be. The sensory experiences that trigger particular memories stimulate areas of the brain associated with rewards and emotions. This is particularly notable with memories evoked by smells, as smells are processed in the olfactory bulb, which has direct connections to the amygdala, the emotional processing region of the brain, and the hippocampus, the memory processing region. The reason nostalgia feels so strong is precisely because of this immediate pathway between senses and emotions. Attachment to our past is a fundamental part of human nature, and our anatomy reflects this.
Recently, I’ve been thinking about the more poignant feelings nostalgia brings about. While most college students probably wouldn’t trade their independence for anything, I would be more than willing to surrender the freedoms that accompany adulthood to be a kid again. I cherished the lack of responsibility that enabled the worry-free cheerfulness of my childhood. It’s distressing to think that that untroubled time is long gone and my obligations and duties will inevitably multiply as time progresses.
My romanticization of the past stems from the fact that my present is still filled with much of the ease that I associate with my childhood. As the youngest sibling and youngest of my cousins, I have always been fervently taken care of by my family. Naturally, I grew accustomed to this sense of security. Heading off to college is the time where most “babies” of the family evolve into more independent spirits. In my case, my dream university was a quick 20 minute drive from home, in a city where both of my parents worked.
While I certainly have more independence living in Providence than I did in my microscopic Rhode Island town, I’m unsure that I am truly independent, as the sense of security from my family has yet to fade away. It’s always been comforting to be able to go home for a family dinner if I’m not excited by dining hall options, to rest in a big bed if I
fall sick, or to take a shower without having to wear flip flops once in a while. And with each visit home, my attachment to my childhood grows stronger.
For most, these warm, cozy moments are reserved for school breaks, and the desire to feel like a kid again diminishes as time passes. I deem it a privilege to have the ability to see my parents and revel in these comforts several times per semester. But there is a growing part of me that wonders if I need to challenge my fondness for the passenger seat. Sometimes, it’s a mental tug-of-war: there shouldn’t be a rush to grow up and have more autonomy, but I also shouldn’t let myself be so coddled at 19 years old. I question if my proximity and frequent visits to home deprive me of the growth that is supposed to occur at this point in my life.
My friends often express their jealousy of my closeness to home. It’s something I am so grateful for, yet I see how independent they are and can’t help but admire it. They solve their own problems without making a quick call home and getting picked up, and so much of their growth seems tied to the command they have over their own lives. I’m uncertain if it’s something that I would even be capable of.
I’ve discovered a lot about myself while venturing down memory lane, and I think the destination it has led me to is one of balance: challenging myself to solve my own problems, but also letting myself take advantage of this time I have close to home every once in a while. I hope to reach a point where I can feel nostalgic for childhood and responsibility’s absence, without feeling envious of that time anymore. Having agency over my life is something I intend to look forward to, rather than trembling at the thought of. I’m certain that I will get there eventually, but for now I am going to cherish going home to my mom’s home-cooked meals, or watching Jeopardy! in the living room with my dad. I’m sure that, someday, I will long for this time back, too.
Here the stars are bright and begging, like pennies at the bottom of a well. Here the trees are green, even in the heart of winter, for here the winter does not exist. Here I feel hidden, tucked away into a pocket of the night. We are so far from the city, from the lights, from the highway. It is the first time I have been somewhere so empty. Outside, the roots rustle. Wild chickens scratch at dead leaves. They have been doing this all night. The first time they did, the sound startled us so much that we reached for each other. But now we are used to it, the same way we are used to sharing a bed, laying side-byside like two halves of an equals sign. We lie there like little kids, giggling.
1. Cuddle with a 900 year old vampire
2. Drink propylene glycol
3. Listen to Arctic Monkeys
4. Do icebreakers (or don’t)
5. Skate on thin ice
6. Take your clothes off ;)
7. Fight fire with fire (beat the heat)
8. Shiver me timbers
9. Seek affection from your situationship
10. Shade
Tell me a secret, I say.
The room is too dark to see each other’s faces, but I can see M’s silhouette. You already know everything, he says, but both of us know that’s not true.
I have never had a brother, but this is what I think it must be like on the best of days: the two of us, cocooned. The knowledge that, no matter what he says, I would still do just about anything for him.
M tells me his secret. His breath is warm against my ear. When he speaks, I feel him tilt his chin down, as if in prayer. — —
Secrets are a certain prayer. Burning silently like votive candles along an altar.
Secrets are sacred. To keep one is a type of worship. To speak one is to speak in tongues.
I collect them like alms, cradled in cupped hands. I hold them up to your face. A suppliant position.
— —
Tell me a secret, I say, and here are the things they offer: Fake boyfriends. Fake orgasms. Fear of the night sky, but only when the sky is clear. Fear of God. Fear of their father. The last toilet they took a shit in. The last person they talked shit about. Crushes on classmates. Crushes on friends. Crushes on professors. The time the cops chased them through a park. The time the cops chased them out of a parking lot. The time they pissed on the bathroom floor. The time they kissed a stranger in a bathroom stall. A plan to die by the age of forty-five. Their virginity, or recent lack thereof. Recent break-ups. Recent hook-ups. Recent deaths in their family, how sudden it was. How that window got broken. How their uncle got away with that affair. How they only do things to please other people. How they never got over their first love. How they don’t know how to be alone.
— —
And what are secrets if not aloneness? A vow you make to yourself. An invisible shield. To identify the parts of yourself you hope no one sees. To make it so. To hide something, you must first hide the fact that something has been hidden. Bury the object and burn the map.
— —
The room, warm as a womb. Even as sleet peppers the sidewalk outside. Here is the wonton soup, homemade. Here are the people to share it with. And a softness, hovering, like a feather in the sun.
Tell me a secret, I say.
T crosses his legs. What kind of secret?
Any kind, I say. As long as you’re comfortable.
Around us, the others continue talking. T pulls out his phone and types up a paragraph. He passes the phone to me under the table. Reading it is like swallowing ice. When I turn to look at T, he is talking to someone else.
I pass his phone back to him. Are you okay? I ask.
“Do you think Alvin and the Chipmunks were based on the Three Wise Men?”
“There are days that I really wish I had a dick. I want to put it in orbeez.”
He deletes the paragraph one letter at a time, like erosion, which is erasure. When he sees my face, he places a hand on my knee and says, I’m okay.
Hours later—after the rain has stopped and the dishes are piled in the sink and I am walking under the jaundiced street lights, alone—I will remember this moment and I will start to cry. But for now I hold T’s hand. I say, Okay. — —
But secrets are power, and power is transactional. Tell me a secret, I say, and most people ask for one in return. Sometimes I ask because I have one I want to tell. Sometimes I worry that the real reason I ask is because I want an excuse to share my own.
And yet when the time comes, I cannot. A secret loses its power the more it is spoken. Like a curse. Like a name. If I am able to share mine, I am scared the sharing will make it less important. Confessing the worst things about myself, confessing the worst that has happened to me—it would be an admission that it was never so bad in the first place. The worst things live behind my teeth. — —
Here moonlight pools at our feet like milk. Here is the floor, sticky from the seltzer someone spilled. Someone has hung a plant from the windowsill, a talisman. And, I think, someone has opened a window. I cannot see the window, only feel the cold against my bare neck.
Tell me a secret, I say, and around us the room is pulsing.
K grins. I’m not telling you anything, she says. Both of us know we are the only sober people here.
In the bathroom, someone has been throwing up for hours. In the hallway, someone is kissing someone else. In the kitchen, someone is calling for more soju. I
am wearing someone else’s bra, but I cannot remember whose. I cannot remember when they gave it to me.
I say, If you tell me one of yours, I’ll tell you one of mine.
K raises an eyebrow. Okay, she says. You first.
I lean in. The couch cushions slouch forward with me. I cup my hand around the corner of my mouth. I tell her something no one knows, and immediately the object loses its luster.
Night closes around us like a mouth.
— —
A secret is a pomegranate seed. The flesh of fruit crushed in my fist. Swallowing one is relinquishment. A type of hijacking. A type of greed. The earth opens up and takes you like a seed, still breathing, and in the end you are happy to at least be held.
— —
Secrets are usually secret because they are truths, so here are mine.
There is only one person in the world who I truly hate, and he is ()()()()()()()()(. If he died, I would not care. Sometimes I imagine his death, my parents on the phone, calling to tell me. When I think about this phone call, I hope I get it in a room full of people so that they all witness my indifference.
My mom used to ()()()()()())(. It was ()()()(), but she did not need ()()()()()()()(), which made it easier but not easy.
In high school, I had ()()((()()()()())()(. I ()()() my () ()())(, then ();(() them more. Most likely, it was ()()()()(), but we will never know for sure because I was too afraid to tell anyone. I am still too afraid to tell anyone, although I am doing better now. Since I am doing better now, I feel
as though I am appropriating someone else’s suffering whenever I talk about ()()()()()() ()() in therapy.
The worst day of my life was when my ()() had a ((() ()()()().
The last time I prayed was last April. The prayer was for ()()()()((())() ()()()()()(), who was sick. My ()()( told me not to tell anyone, and I never did, unless you count God. I do not talk to ()() ()() anymore, but I hope ()()() ()()() is doing better. The prayer started off with, I don’t believe in you, but — —
One night, I am sitting on the floor of J’s apartment. J is sitting next to me. I tell her, My mom used to ()()()() ()())(
J looks at me. Really?
Yeah, I say.
My mom did, too, she says. Two years ago.
I’m sorry, I say.
She puts an arm around me. I’m sorry too, she says. You should have told me, we both say.
—
—
I have found that this is how it typically goes. Most of the time, when I exchange secrets with someone, we discover that we have more in common than we thought. So I decide to give away all my secrets. To have at least one person know one thing about me that others do not. I scatter myself like breadcrumbs.
Because a secret is meant to be shared. Once it is shared it is no longer a secret, but something slightly different, something slightly better. It is the nakedness before skinny dipping. It is connective tissue. It is an invitation. It is telling someone, I want to know you, and I want to be known by you.
by Jeanine Kim
Illustrated by Emily Saxl
cw: mentions of food anxiety and negative body image
Small cobblestone streets, clotheslines overflowing with bright linens and colorful underwear, tiny dogs yapping as they lick the crumbs of pastries and cornettos off the road—Italy is a picturesque destination, one colored by decades of romanticisation in the media. Despite its aspirational depiction as a nation living in rustic nostalgia where every street is imbued with thousands of years of history, the most popular thing about Italy is its food. Often called the best cuisine in the world, Italian food draws people in with its rich sauces, fresh flavors, and accessible appeal. However, despite the world's totalizing adoration, Italian cuisine is also a minefield of terror and paralyzing anxiety for those who struggle with eating and body image; every slurp of buttery pasta and every bite of cheesy pizza can spark panic beyond comprehension.
When I went to Italy this spring break as a romantic getaway with my boyfriend of over two years, it started off as a nightmare of deliciousness and temptation, one that triggered crushing guilt with every orgasmic bite of savory goodness. Yet, as the week progressed and I ate more (and more and more), the feelings dissipated. Rather than spiraling anxiety, I found myself in a perfect state of romance and bliss, one unencumbered by the ominous footsteps of worrying about macronutrients or calories.
aperitivo: a selection of olives, warmed. paired with fresh-baked bread e taralli. olive oil not included at table.
A simple beginning to the meal, just enough to tease out my appetite without sating it. My favorite snack in the world is heated to perfection, bringing out its rich savoriness without overpowering the other flavors on the table. The absence of olive oil—a subtle reminder of how I usually douse my bread with it back home—brings out the guilt. And despite the bread's fresh flavor, I can't escape the sour taste in my mouth.
antipasti: a plate of prosciutto crudo, salame e speck, alongside pecorino e fontina.
A platter of deli meats and cheese arrives to tempt me further: an explosion of flavor and salt that promises a delicious journey alongside a dose of regret once the meal is over. But I can justify it—after all, it's just protein and fat, the cornerstones of any good ketogenic diet. In my head, I see every piece of cured meat translating itself into muscle gains at the gym. As I reach for yet another piece of salami, I notice I've been eating the same amount as my boyfriend, and the shame kicks in once more; I put my hand down and wait for him to eat another few pieces before I partake.
primi: spaghetti carbonara made with pecorino romano, eggs e guanciale.
The motherlode of terrors, the embodiment of my fear of Italian food. The pasta dish is the definition of food guilt, one that can't be justified by ketogenic dining habits. Pasta, iconic, delicious, and full of carbohydrates, is a fear food. The rich sauce coating every noodle with a delicate balance of creaminess and saltiness only adds to the increasing panic. I try to justify the meal with reminders of how much I've walked, as if the miles I've traveled today cancel out the monstrosity of carbs and fat I'm about to ingest, but that doesn't work. I don't feel better.
Pushing around the noodles with my fork, creating patterns out of guanciale and sauce, I look over to my boyfriend scarfing down his noodles without a care— the beauty of a person eating for pure pleasure and contentment. He looks up and smiles at me, and it all breaks. His enjoyment of the dish, an unthinking willingness to eat simply because he wants to and it tastes good, reminds me of what food should be like. His gaze, loving and affectionate, reveals that he doesn't care how much I eat or what I look like or how much I weigh; he loves me, just as I should for myself. Why should I worry about what I eat when no one else does? Rather than being a damning reminder of my weakness or a cruel example of caloric overindulgence, each noodle transforms into a revelation of acceptance and understanding. An exercise in self-hatred is diverted into love: for myself, for my boyfriend,
and for food itself.
secondi: saltimbocca alla romana
This dish of veal, made in the traditional Roman style, is a regional specialty. It's emblematic of why I should let go: This, a once in a lifetime kind of dish, is precisely what I would miss out on if I let the little voice in my head win during this trip. Misgivings about eating baby animals aside, the dish is delicious. I allow myself to sink into the pleasure that is the combination of veal, prosciutto, and sage.
dolci: tiramisu
A simple combination of ladyfingers, coffee, and cream, tiramisu stands the test of time as a dessert beloved by all. Even beyond its mass appeal, it is one of my favorite sweets, with its delectable texture and its perfect balance of sweet and bitter. Spooning mouthful after mouthful, the dessert melts into my entire being, filling me with satisfaction. After the plate is finished, having split the dish with my boyfriend, my sweet tooth isn't fully sated. But salvation awaits: I remember the little cannoli place down the road. I smile to myself as I count my euros, eagerly anticipating the sweet treat that will await me after this dessert is over.
digestivo: a little shot of limoncello
The limoncello shot, wildly popular in Italy, is something that I cannot understand. Though the practice of having an alcoholic drink following a meal is common throughout the world, the appeal of the Italian choice, limoncello, eludes me. A sweet vodka infused with lemon, it is simultaneously too saccharine and too strong. As I pucker my mouth at the unpleasant flavor, I regret my choice of digestivo, feeling the collection of pasta and meats rise in my stomach at this unwelcome addition. But still, when the warm feeling settles and I look up at my sweet boy smiling down at me, I feel better. My stomach, filled with delicious food, and my heart, filled with pure love, is full and at peace. And I look out onto the Roman street ready to tackle all adventures and meals that await me.
“Liu Bei’s men were getting closer. You could hear them beating their drums, waving their torches, shouting their war songs into the frigid air as they sailed closer and closer.
Cao Cao’s enemy camps were caught unawares on the riverbank and frantically assembled to face what appeared to be a massive army.
Only Zhuge Liang, Liu Bei’s best and most trusted strategist—and the organizer of the whole affair—knew the truth. He knew that the cacophony of drums and yells were produced by fewer than 30 men. He knew that under the thick cover of fog, Cao Cao’s armies on the riverbank would not be able to tell the size of the approaching enemy fleet. The straw-stuffed dolls that filled each boat would appear as formidable enemy soldiers, standing six feet high and carrying giant staffs.
Zhuge Liang peered out at the banks, squinting to see Cao Cao’s next move. A war horn sounded twice. A volley of arrows darkened the sky, arcing through the falling snow, finding their marks buried deep in the army of straw men that Zhuge Liang had filled his fleet with.
Zhuge Liang ducked to safety, satisfied. His men hunkered down below deck and waited out the attack. By the time the fleet had sailed miles beyond the enemy camp, they were 100,000 arrows richer without having expended any of their own resources and Cao Cao was none the wiser.”
My dad paused to catch his breath. I leaned back against an old oak and waited.
“Tell me more about Zhuge Liang.”
“Well, he was the most cunning man in the Three Kingdoms. He was brave and loyal. He was decisive and always weighed every move he made against the consequences that could follow.”
I practiced my swordplay with my hiking stick—a spindly branch picked up half a mile ago—against the tree, denting the stick with every carefully placed strike.
“He was all these things. And he was still only a man.”
Whenever my dad and I went hiking, we would pass the time by telling stories. Or, more accurately, I would pester him to tell me stories about my two favorite subjects: his own childhood, and the legendary Chinese
hero, Zhuge Liang.
While we are quite sure Zhuge Liang is a real man who lived and died during the Three Kingdoms period, what we know of him today has long since left the constraints of his actual life and slipped into legend. His most well-known exploits were recorded as historical fact and some of his more mythological feats were sprinkled into the 14th century publication of Romance of the Three Kingdoms. He is known as one of the greatest Chinese strategists who ever lived and his cunning schemes are retold often and with many dramatics to Chinese (and Chinese-American) schoolchildren. He was one of my favorite heroes growing up.
My dad told me about Zhuge Liang because I liked hearing about him. But as I grew older, I realized it was also because he didn’t really know what to say when I asked him to tell me stories about himself. Stories about historical heroes were easier and more fun.
I learn my dad’s narrative from other people. My parents met in high school and my mom tells me about how absurd my dad was as a teen: how he would rather play soccer in the rain than study for the gaokao; how he wrote (plagiarized) love poems in her yearbook and letters after high school; how he had poor vision but no glasses so his teachers always thought he was rude when he ignored them in the streets; how he was brilliant and always top of his class despite these various little faults.
He mentions once that he might’ve been a physicist if they had stayed in China. I ask if he’s happy doing what he does now.
IT isn’t bad, of course, he reflects, Not bad at all.
“Can you tell me another Zhuge Liang story?”
We approach the summit and cover the following Zhuge Liang tales: how he summoned the eastern wind to set his enemies’ ships on fire, how he incited a civil war by sending rival kings insulting poems, how he performed a ritual to extend his lifespan by twelve years but was interrupted by battle before it could be completed. How he may have been a hero, but he still feared death.
Everyone says I look like my dad. When I compare pictures of us in childhood, we’re nearly identical. According to legend, Zhuge Liang was “eight feet tall, like
pine and cypress.” My dad is considerably shorter, but I suppose he casts a tall shadow.
Personality-wise, the differences intensify. While I’m short-tempered and stubborn, he’s exceedingly reserved with a long fuse, but is also uproariously funny on the rare occasion he chooses to speak up. He goes to great lengths to keep the peace wherever he may be. Family friends, church members, and relatives all point out how humble and tolerant he is—to the point that it’s a running joke in some circles and has gotten him elected to lead multiple religious study groups against his will. It’s something I admire greatly, but is simultaneously annoying: It’s difficult to know what he’s really thinking and feeling.
The sun trickles into the parking lot. I’m driving clumsy circles around cones he set up, plowing into a fair number as we go.
He taught me how to drive with more patience than was reasonable. Some days we would listen to my music, some days we would listen to his. Others, we wouldn’t listen to anything at all because he was cross that I kept talking and getting distracted, my eyes drifting off the road.
We drive up Sugarloaf Mountain a few minutes after it has officially closed. He shrugs. “How do you enforce the closure of a mountain?” The sun dips, yet it’s hot and humid. We don’t end up staying long.
My favorite Zhuge Liang story was the one about the empty city:
Cao Cao’s men were gaining. Liu Bei’s forces were spread thin. Zhuge Liang had received word that Cao Cao’s men were less than a day’s march from taking Xicheng. Zhuge Liang only had a small number of men with him in Xicheng; the bulk of the Shu army were deployed elsewhere. What was he to do?
“I’ll tell you what he did.”
He sent the few soldiers he had to disguise themselves as civilians and sweep the streets. He instructed local children to sing and play happily. Zhuge Liang himself sat in the middle of the main road and played the guqin. He ordered the main gates to be swung wide open. And then he waited to see if his enemies would fall for his gambit. When Cao Cao’s general Sima Yi arrived, he was surprised to see an empty city with open gates and suspected an ambush. He promptly retreated. Of course, like many of his ploys, it was only a trick of the eye. Sima Yi only saw what he suspected to be true. Zhuge Liang was known for being careful and pragmatic; how could an empty city be anything other than an ambush? How could Zhuge Liang be anything other than what he was?
When my family talks about love we talk about it in English, not Chinese like we do everything else. I think it distances things. Or maybe it makes it more real. Maybe love is so sacred that we can’t speak about it in the same language we use to talk about groceries or cleaning the bathroom, everyday drudgeries.
A few months ago, I turned to the true source to get my fix of historical drama and political intrigue. Actually reading the text of Romance of the Three Kingdoms felt like a return to something I had known all my life, my dad’s retellings in their original form.
There were unexpected twists that my dad hadn’t told me (though to be fair, it’s very long). The most surprising was Zhuge Liang’s death after leading five failed campaigns north and the eventual fall of the Shu. I suppose I had never thought too hard about what happened to him at the end. But then, it didn’t matter much because his life had grown so large in the end that it had eclipsed his death.
It’s hard to maintain your heroes as you grow older. These days I’ve mostly outgrown Zhuge Liang, but my dad and I still connect through our shared set of cultural references, though I have to study to keep up. I listen to his Eagles CDs and point out when Don
Henley comes on the car radio to make sure he knows that I’m listening closely. I watch a few seasons of Seinfeld and Longmire, and form a respectable number of opinions about soccer players. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to see him as a man who, fortunately, happens to be my father, but possesses all the normal flaws and inconsistencies that that comes with. Even so, it’s comforting to see the spots where we overlap and differ, and to know that I’m growing into someone I admire overall. Beyond the physical resemblance, perhaps another area of similarity is that we both feel most comfortable discussing our own lives and relationship through other people’s stories. And that’s a constant that’s becoming alright with me.
As we shuffled through the halls of the Vatican Museums, we were packed like sardines, herded like cattle, moving like a flock of sheep. Not much thinking was required of us, except maybe to keep on walking do not stop in the immediate path of another person and hinder the current of this sea of people. It was crowded, and it was not even peak tourist season. Any solo wanderer attempting to meander through these dozens of rooms would swiftly be swept up by the mass of tourists pouring through the galleries. Each tourist seemed to be in one gigantic rush toward an end goal: the Sistine Chapel.
Reflecting on this experience, I am instantly reminded of the final passage from a short story, “Dark Neighborhood” by Vanessa Onwuemezi. It’s about a line of people waiting for the gates to open, a story where there is nothing for the characters to do except wait for their unknown and unpromised salvation. When the gates finally open, the narrator can’t help but wonder about the point of it all:
“Compelled I keep marching forwards on my toes in this endless advance that goes nowhere, and I ask myself why we can’t turn around, why we never turned around to look for some other way through. Why us starved people have been waiting, wanting hopeless wants and are now running towards them in the night as a sea of heads. Silence has fallen on us, no cries of bliss, all is covered in a layer of hush as we dampen down, a fog hanging low. And I look around at the other people, at the backs and sides of their heads, while they are staring straight ahead only ahead.”
By the time I made it to the final destination— my neck craned up, dazed by the dazzling sights overhead—I couldn’t help but feel a similar wondering sensation. Sure, the Sistine Chapel is renowned for a variety of reasons—Michelangelo himself, his Creation of Adam, the Fall of Man and the Expulsion from Paradise, and The Last Judgment—but it’s often sold as the highlight of a visit to the Vatican Museums, as if it’s a cut above the rest. But if you’re willing to take the time and “look for some other way through,” you can find the works of Caravaggio, Raphael, DaVinci, and more. There’s so much to see, you’ll find yourself lost in the endless details of the frescoes of Raphael, accidentally stumbling upon iconic paintings such as The School of Athens or The Transfiguration. All of a sudden you’ll realize the gorgeous corridor you’re walking through—gleaming gold, green, and blue—is actually the Gallery of Maps, and at every step of the way there’s more to discover on the walls and ceiling.
But watching these crowds pass through each
room, only staring straight ahead, you would never guess that such artistry was along the way. Everyone’s all go, go, go—which is bewildering when they could stop in any room and wander about for ages, all the while pondering a thousand different details. If I hadn’t made a conscious effort to linger an extra few minutes in each room, I wouldn’t have noticed the artist’s cartoonish anatomical choices overshadowing the chaos in The Fire in the Borgo, or a comically bright baby Jesus standing atop the back of a rather grumpy-looking Saint Christopher in Der Heilige Christophorus, or the masterful use of light and shadow in Liberation of Saint Peter. For many of these tourists, you would think all this artwork was only the backdrop of their visit to the Sistine Chapel, a natural and necessary facet of the landscape.
Admittedly, seeing the crowds act like this really built up my expectations for what I would finally see. Yet I found that the chapel only seems like an equal continuation of all the beauty that leads up to it, rather than the culmination. The trademark Creation of Adam image is hardly at the center, as one might imagine or hope—in fact, it’s quite easy to accidentally overlook. My eyes got lost as I stared up, and then they slowly began to register that the smallish rectangular image somewhere up above me was in fact the image I’ve been hoping to see all my life. And maybe it’s the lighting, or perhaps the age, but the colors were simply not as vibrant as I’ve seen in pictures—or as I envisioned in my head.
I’m reminded of other moments like these, such as how the Mona Lisa is much smaller in real life than I’d expect it to be—as my parents lamented to me when they visited France last fall—or the so-called Paris syndrome experienced by tourists who actually suffer psychological symptoms akin to anxiety when the romanticized vision of the city they’re visiting doesn’t match reality at all. Perception is fickle, and nothing lives up to our expectations. It makes me wonder how much beauty has been wasted, how much enjoyment has gone unfulfilled, all due to our relentless need to push forward, to attain our next objective, to check another thing off our bucket list.
At the same time, something must be said about the excess of global exposure in the modern age and how this has warped our perceptions. Not only has tourism massively grown in the past century, but social media has made us way more connected—so much so that a simple browse through TikTok could
have essentially told me everything I needed to look for in a visit to Rome. With the Internet at our fingertips, we can access troves of information about the world, and it makes our ancestors, even those living only forty, fifty years ago, look rather isolated and uninformed by comparison. But in a world where I can access a clear and vivid, high-definition version of the Sistine Chapel on my phone screen, how can it live up to my expectations? This bombardment of beauty across the Internet through countless curated and perfect images has desensitized us—to the point where Sistine Chapels can be a letdown, and we are forever stuck in pursuit of the next bigger and better thing. Our overstimulation of beauty is heightened by filters and photo editing, both promising a glamorous ideal that’s impossible to attain. A side effect of this is that consumerism and corporations thrive off of our dissatisfaction with life. It’s why we buy the next beauty product, hop onto the next fashion trend, become attracted to the allure of immediate weight loss or wealth or age reversal—we fall for the scams that promise instant this, instant that. Our warped perceptions are easily exploited, and the worst part of it all is that we rob ourselves of pure and simple delight along the way.
On my trip to Rome, I found that my time was much better spent on the things I had planned out a little less and had fewer expectations for. A leisurely stroll through the city led me to the Largo di Torre Argentina, an unassuming square with the ruins of what looks to be some sort of stage or temple and columns. My first time passing it, I gave it a quick look, kept walking, and thought nothing more. But when I encountered the sight once again, on a different day, I decided to take the time and look closer.
Upon closer inspection, the Largo di Torre Argentina is a cat sanctuary. It is also believed to be the area where Julius Caesar was assassinated all those years ago. But now you can see the cats roaming around different parts of the ruins, some finding unique places to perch on—the top of a wall, a tree stump, the base of a broken column. Others look expectantly up at passersby for food. To me, this was beautiful. To find life thriving in the remnants of a past one. I stood by and watched them, trying to count how many cats I could see. By sunset, a few of them exited the ruins to come onto the street, and I saw something like pure delight reach the faces of the local Italians just passing by.
I was raised by springs that fell through the crack between winter and summer, a season symbolized only by the events that rendered its yearly timing: Passover Seders with my family over spring break, preparation for finals, a class trip I had been eagerly anticipating. It’s always “spring” in southern California—rarely is the stretch between warm, breezy days long enough to constitute any form of winter. Flowers, the beach, and consistently somewhat-strong UV rays live year-round in my West Coast origins.
The wide-eyed Los Angeleno—or another West Coast hometown of your preference—ogling at her first fall leaves is a tease-worthy cliché (one that I personally express in the excessive amount of time I spend every fall semester standing at the base of trees with my phone camera out and my mouth wide open). But as spring begins to blossom in these coming weeks of long, green, sunny days, the impending flowers and final hurrahs of a Brown semester stir in me an eagerness more long-term than the temporality of changing leaves. Or maybe just the reality of seasons is exciting in that it is cyclical, and I can only resolve to continue to uphold the clichés…and to always have a camera roll that pushes the limits of my storage plan.
Thankfully, these priceless coupons never expire.
I never considered myself very aggressive, but growing up, one Sunday every year, my primal instincts kicked in. My cousins and I instantly became competitors as we battled to secure the most eggs, filled with either money or coupons valid for future memories with our grandparents.
April showers bring May flowers
by section Eds
Illustrated by Ella Buchanan
Everyone agreed the coupons were much more valuable. They ranged from a sleepover accompanied by Dairy Queen to a lunch at IHOP (my grandma’s favorite restaurant, where she always orders New York Cheesecake pancakes). Every Spring, I watched in excitement as my grandma organized everyone’s notes in a row and recorded who got which coupon on her signature yellow notepad.
These same yellow papers lined her house, reminding her of every part of her daily routine. Seeing them meant I was somewhere loving and comfortable. That’s why the coupons meant so much. They ensured I would spend plenty of time surrounded by these notes throughout the summer—times I would cherish and reminisce about for the rest of my life.
In Florida, there are no seasons. It's hotter in July than it is in January, but only barely, and the humidity is as familiar as the mosquitoes. Maybe that’s why seasons in Providence feel like such a revelation.
Each spring semester, you wait with bated breath for the first lovely day, convinced that winter will stretch into March, April, May. Nervous that it'll be gray and rainy forever. Nervous that the Grad D walkway will remain flooded until you move out. Nervous that spring is a daydream, a New England myth that you made up.
But you didn’t. The snow remembers to melt, the flowers remember to bloom, and you emerge to people sprawled on the Blue Room steps, soaking in the extra hour of sun.
Like a friend you haven’t seen in a while, like a pair of perfectly broken-in shoes, like a hand in yours, spring slips back into place and it fits perfectly.
You breathe a sigh of relief, of contentment. “I’m
back,” spring whispers, as you step outside and the breeze kisses your forehead. “I remembered.”
[untitled]
By Daniella CoyleThat weekend, the snow melted across New England into an irregular coat of crystalline water. Drops of it, falling off rooftop gutters, congregated into rivulets on the way down into the gasping pavement, quenching the bare bushes with outstretched limbs. Streaming out from the mounds on the sidewalk, the snow troubled the roads in reactionary sprays to unsuspecting car wheels, and lapped over the concrete divots. The first buds were seen on the trees, and birdsong christened each morning. Sun shone unhindered and close, with the remnants of winter relenting slowly to the scented foreshadow of spring.
Inside one house, I looked out the window onto what was still, as a child, a world to me: my backyard. Sunshine peeled the slush-tinged white back, and from underneath a new green surface peered. I stepped out barefoot and dodged the remaining snow patches, feeling the fresh wet grass squish and ooze, alive. I began to notice the things that were recently buried and newly emerged: sticks and shriveled leaves, indestructible shards of grass, rocks, a baseball I had thrown with my sister the previous summer and left out, a small bracelet my friend gave me once as a gift, which must have fallen off unnoticed, a red colored pencil, a lucky penny. Things I had seen before.
From their time resting frozen beneath feet of snow, they were icy wet. But now here they were, shining under the warm sun, and I was back to the places and people with whom I made those memories. Springtime, as it turns out, is not simply about change, but the discovery of what to return to.
Crossroads post- mini crossword 9
by Walter Zhang1 2 3 4
“The passing of time is easy to miss when you don’t pay attention. It sweeps by, and sometimes we want it to.”
—Marin Warshay, “The Routine of Nostalgia” 4.15.22
“As the snow turned everything still, silencing the rush of oncoming traffic, emphasizing the sound of my breathing, a familiar ache twisted in my stomach: homesickness, loneliness, maybe a tinge of nostalgic grief.”
—Danielle Emerson, “Coffee Grounds” 3.26.21
town" in New York
Street that crosses 6A and 7A
Namesake of a theorem in statistical inference
Abbr. that may include a St. or Ste. Delt, gamm, bet, ____
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