My Happy Place

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

My name is Noah. I teach high school history, civics and civilization.

At the start of every school year, I tell my students that history is the movie that links points in time—a proclamation, a date, a war victory, an election, a royal marriage, a government formed, a government fallen. Each fact is a mosaic tile—the bits and bytes, the beauty and bestiality—in the story that makes us who we are.

While I make my pitch, my students pass notes, watch the wall clock or doodle. In life’s lottery, I slave away teaching American high school kids instead of working as a Roman slave tending kitchens or bathhouses.

At Villa Casale in the center of Sicily, I’m in history teacher mode, super-charged. The archaeological excavations give me anticipation goosebumps.

En route to the villa, the rolling hills are glorious with agriculture, livestock, crumbling stone houses and modern farming. The air is perfumed with the scent of lush, verdant vegetation. Red-and-yellow blossoms are sprinkled over the emerald green-on-green colorscape.

Upon arrival, a gauntlet of dowdy shacks hawking junk in the form of touristy statuettes, refrigerator magnets, tea towels, t-shirts and plush toys block my way. One last chance to snag a souvenir guidebook. I buy one.

The villa was a hunting lodge built by a Roman businessman, military general or politician to get away from the cares and callouses of daily life. A bespoke retreat for pleasure, comfort and escape.

Villa Casale is a Disneyland—a Roman happy place. Mosaicland. Fantasyland-by-Fresco.

Like any memorable museum, the Villa is a meditation. More than the sum of its artworks. A temple transcendentally more wonderful than the mosaic of its parts.

As if I am viewing the ruins from a heavenly drone, euphoria transports me. I become oblivious to time. The Roman nooks and crannies crowd my eyes. In my eardrums, I hear my pulse quicken.

I wander past porticos, pillars, arches, columns with Ionic or Corinthian capitals, atriums, colonnades, peristyle courtyards, a thermal bathhouse, massage rooms, gyms, spas and saunas, latrines with marble seats, servants’ quarters, terracotta pipes, a chapel and household shrine, marble and stone statuary, fountains, basins, vestibules, kitchens, kilns, a basilica.

Twelve thousand square feet of mosaic magic is dazzling. My eyes are wide, taking in every tiled image. Breathing unevenly, feeling faint, I pause to rest against a railing overlooking a courtyard and fountain.

In the mosaics and murals, the frescoes and friezes, the lives and concerns of Roman ‘one percenters’ are revealed. Chariot races, sea journeys, hunting scenes, athletic competitions. Slaves wrestle exotic animals into cages for transport to Rome. Couples in various erotic embraces satisfy their lusts. Mythological characters frolic. Cupids and nymphs do their thing. Women in beach volleyballer uniforms work out with weights, play ball, throw a discus.

In the 4th century, the Villa was located a few meters off a major Roman roadway. Nowadays, it is two inconvenient freeway hours by car from either Palermo or Siracusa. No one visits here by accident.

The Roman gods have called me to prayer and—because this is the Villa Casale—to party. I am summoned to keep Roman history alive.

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