hannahziomek

I hear a squeaking. It sounds like a funny bird or a child, but I know from our first day in Rome that it is the sound of one of the many toys that the street vendors sell. The slight breeze feels cool on my shoulders but only cool enough to allow tiny goosebumps to form. I focus on listening, but it’s hard; my brain jumps from sound to sound trying to distinguish something familiar. Finally, a child laughs and my ears are drawn to their voice; they begin to yell in Italian and then end their rant, surprisingly, by shouting “let’s go” to whoever they were accompanied by. This child, easily switches back and forth between English and Italian without missing a beat and I, yet again, feel embarrassed by my lack of bilingualism. I hear a spraying of water that is separate from the continuous trickle of Bernini’s fountain behind me and I can’t identify what it could be. It’s the same sound I hear when my mom sprays our plants at home—a pleasant shh shh —but I can’t connect it to someth...

Albany was a relieving experience for me. I was interested to see how the trip would play out and how our class would interact with the experience. Being classmates is one thing but being travel companions is another. I was relieved to find an ease about the trip. After a bit of slight panic from those who were a few minutes late, and some complimentary donuts from Mark, we were off. At first, I let my stress overtake me during the car ride. I had been on a trip all day the day before and my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of greek translations and english essays I had to finish. But driving along the highway my racing mind became distracted by the blurred cars that passed us in the opposite direction. And thinking further, I realized that everyone else in the car was filled with the same worries as I. Afterall, we were the car that had chosen to opt out of Druther’s for dinner. Believe me, someone who passes up an opportunity for beer-cheese dip and macaroni and cheese is someo...

He paints a regal picture. Embellished with gold in his clothing, as well as in his character. The curls cascade, and the cape captivates: like a senator’s toga, the draped fabric maintains an impression of importance. His hand grips it effortlessly, as if his notoriety is something he expects, rather than something he has earned. He smirks at you. He is surprised by any creature without perfect complexion. His cheeks flush with embarrassment just from the sight of you. Standing upon the flora which decorates him, he embodies a partnership between the wealth of the earth, and the wealth in his pockets. His cap cannot hide the prosperity that grows with those curls. Chest proud and gaze wide, the shadow he casts reaches farther and farther, until someone detects the lies that supply it. There is a fear behind that smirk. There is a reason behind the value placed on perfection. He fears his own embarrassment. The podium which...

Voyeur Hannah Ziomek I have been nursing my iced vanilla latte for so long that it is starting to taste more like water than anything. As I look around the room I try to focus on the woman on her laptop by the window and on the cashier ringing up customer after customer; however, neither of them can keep my attention for long. I am waiting for a character that will blow me away but I realize that seeking this out is making my task even more difficult. So, I decide to focus on the most boring thing I see: an old man who is simply just sitting there. Unlike everyone else who is either chatting over coffee, or working on their laptops he just sits there. Amongst all the hustle and bustle of working life he just sits there. I guess that maybe an old man does not have much to do but I begin to imagine why he might be sitting there at a table by himself mid-afternoon on a Friday in Saratoga Springs. And I realize: he is waiting for someone. He looks like an average Joe so I decide that...

Momentary Blindness Hannah Ziomek I found a little ledge to lean on. I close my eyes and I hear voices shouting all around me. Everyone is yelling in an attempt to beat the roaring noise of the crowd. I listen closer and I can make out the far away beating of music, probably from some bar a ways down the street. Thuh-thuh-thuh-thuh. The beat lines up with the footsteps around me and it's hard not to feel overwhelmed. I try to focus on what I smell instead but it isn't pleasant. The smells of alcohol and cigarettes and fish all are melding together to form a repulsive cloud of desperation in the air. It smells like I shouldn't have eaten the chowder I had eaten just five minutes ago. It seemed like a good choice at the time, warm and inviting on my tongue but now the smells and sounds of the current moment have my stomach reconsidering. I reach my left hand back and I can feel the grainy brick which I am leaning against. And once again I feel the beating of the music but...