Rome, Italy, one of those rare places where reality exceeds expectation, where the scale of humanity is measured day in, day out. The Pantheon, The Vatican, The Trevi. Of all the monuments constructed of humanity and deity, none continue to define us better than The Coliseum -- what we were, are, and will be, crumbling like glorious columns of marble. A visceral tribute to legacy.
The interior boasts a massive affair. Seventy-five thousand people all hail death. Extravagant hunts, sadistic executions, colossal gladiators. Lunchtime, intermission, execution one in the same. The devout watch while they snack. Fans tailgate within the stadium, barbecuing fish, lamb or game while the condemned burn in a literal dance of death. But, again, this is down time; a time to cook, relax, converse and hit the latrines. An altogether monotonous affair compared to the day's events. After the burnings, criminals of another class, shorn of cloth and weapon, are left to the savagery of starved beasts. And the crowd goes wild.
Archaeological evidence of pots, stoves, toothpicks and hairpins. Bones, tusks, skulls and teeth swept into blood-soaked drains. A lamp displaying elephant versus bear in a battle to the bitter end. Graffiti tagged into marble; etched by fans, while the day sought its glory. Poems dedicated to the triumphs. The slaves work the pits. Mopping spit, piss, and sweat. Sponges soak fresh blood, eventually profiting its "cure" for epilepsy.
Today, the innards of the stadium lie poetically naked, torn apart by nature and humanity, for us modern fans to admire. We wait in droves. Lines extending hours from end to end just to get a taste. We crave the indecency, wondering how we could be so maniacal, so enterprising. Careening through lines, hawkers abound. They sell hats, umbrellas, water, guided tours, and of course, the selfie-stick.
80 AD. Life meant so little. 2015 AD. Life means so much. Every one is precious. Every person matters. We search for purpose, often finding it through indulgence. The individual defines life through self. This self seeks recognition of worth through friends, family, work and play. Reality for some, the internet for many, and a bit of both for the rest of us. So we promulgate our feelings of pride and individuality through any means necessary. We arm ourselves with clothes, hair, ink, surgery, cellphones and selfies. Like the beasts of the pits, we are still occupied by self-preservation, but 1,935 years later, all too many of us prioritize self-documentation over life itself.
The selfie phenomena has plagued four months and counting of travel. It all began in New Zealand. An occasional arm extended into nature's backdrop. In Asia, the plague spread. The arm became artificial. Selfie-sticks in the hands of every third person; and those who didn't could right their wrong on any street corner, or at any tourist attraction. The plague spread.
Bangkok, Halong Bay, Florence. Selfie face-offs in Starbucks, cuing for the bathroom, smoking a cigarette nowhere special. Maybe I'm too judgmental. Maybe each moment is their Rome. Maybe the latrines are their Coliseum and that cigarette is their Fountain of Neptune.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe we are actually changing as a society. In these past four months, I've only been asked a few times to take a photograph for a stranger. Remember those days when you'd pass your camera to an amiable face to snap a few of you and the fam? Those erroneous pieces of vacation are quickly becoming things of the past.
In Tavoli, Italy at a place called Hadrian's Villa, I asked one of the selfie-righteous to take a photograph of my wife and I. The tour-guided girl had been shooting herself at various angles for the past few minutes, perfecting the pursed lips, adjusting hair just so. Satisfied, she put the stick down. I politely inquired. "Well, I really have to go," as if even proposing the question was an intrusion of selfie-space. "We'll be quick then," I said, handing her my camera.
I want to say I couldn't believe her reaction, but that would be a lie -- I almost expected it. After all, that's what this selfie culture evokes: narcissism to the dirty core. All the time in the world for me, none for you. We all want to share our best poses for the digital world, but when it comes to the real world, there's just no time to share.
With the invention of the selfie-stick, we have even less of a reason to interact. Instead, we continue to build a faux image where only our best side is shown to a world built on code and pixels. We look for friendships, dates and fuckbuddies online. There are even Tinders for sugar daddies and swingers these days because the real world just doesn't cut it. Who wants to talk to a stranger anyway? They're weird and gross and smell like old cheese.
I've read people defend their right to selfies. Usually it's written below their portrait. They are proud of who they are and what they look like. They want to share their ego-based joy with the world. I say, that's fantastic. Tony the Tiger might even say, "You'rrre great!" Self-confidence is a necessary skill in today's world. But there's a world of difference between confidence and cockiness. And there are so many ways to share this skill that don't involve a camera and your face.
Waiting in line for The Coliseum, watching history play, I see thousands of selfies in few hours. The stadium and your best Blue Steel, the perfect balance of death and self-indulgence. I think of Narcissus and his reflective pool. I think of Apple and its reflective cloud. When will we learn from myth, legend, fact and fiction? Instead of heeding the legends of old, we cow to stories of news. For generations we've been indoctrinated: never talk with strangers! From alpha to epsilon, there's no denying the approach of our brave new world in which we no longer have to.