On the morning that my former architecture student called me from Beijing after studying design in Toronto, asking if I was interested in doing a project in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan Province, I decided to prepare my morning espresso before turning to mail.
As I prepared it, Chengdu, Marco Polo, the Silk Roads, and Palmyra began to play out in my mind. I thought back to my visit to Damascus in the spring of 1995. I was invited by the Syrian Ministry of Culture in recognition of my firm’s submission for the Museum of Contemporary
Art Competition. Following the opening of the exhibit of over 10 international entries, I was extended an invitation to meet with the Minister of Culture.
On the morning of my third day’s stay, accompanied by the Canadian representative in Damascus, I met with Dr. Najah al-Atar. After the welcoming niceties, she poured coffee in two cups and handed me one and offered a plateful of Syrian biscuits, resembling small ‘ciambelle.’ We exchanged stories about our respective families and places where each of us had visited. We had in common Boston and Venice. The atmosphere of the meeting was cordial and friendly. I saw her hand on the armrest and press a button. In the blink of an eye, the door opened and in walked two well-dressed aides each holding a box. They placed them on her desk, smiled and walked away.
Dr. al-Attar arose from her chair and said: “Rocco, you have honoured Damascus with a most interesting design for its Museum of Contemporary Art. For this, the Ministry of Culture recognizes it with this Certificate of Appreciation.” I stood up to receive it. As she continued, she opened first the box and then pulled out an impressive book from a leather sleeve: “For the historical and cultural relation that exists between my country and the country of your birth please accept this book. It tells the story and findings of the joint Syrian Italian archaeological mission in Syria.” I accepted the book and began to feel embarrassed for I had nothing to exchange. She must have sensed this and said, “You gave us a unique gift; you are elevating our culture to an unexpected height.”
“As a mother, your own must be very proud of you.” As she said this, she handed me a brocade-patterned box and said: “This is for your mother.” I thanked her once again: “Thank you, grazie, merci,” I uttered in embarrassment, asking if I could open it. She replied, “Yes of course.”
I lifted the lid, and lying on its side was a silver filigree coffee pot. I had no words. It was time to leave, and as we were exchanging goodbyes, she asked me if there was anything else that I wanted to see before my departure.
Without hesitation I replied: “I would have wanted to visit Palmyra, but due to work commitment in Toronto I needed perhaps one day I will return.”
We exchanged goodbyes and carrying the valuable gifts I left for the hotel. The Canadian representative assisted placing the boxes into the consular car and drove me back to the hotel.
When I arrived, two military officers met me. One of them explained in perfect English that Minister al-Attar had given them permission to take me to Palmyra. I said to myself: “All good things come in threes,” omne trium perfectum.
The officers asked me to accompany them and not far from the hotel within minutes we crossed a gated wall and found myself in an army base and in the middle of the parade ground was a helicopter, its rotor slowly whirling. I was invited to board the helicopter; I was belted in with a shoulder harness and donned a headset. It lifted and I found myself suddenly flying over the “City of Jasmine.”
After less than an hour, I found myself amongst the ruins of the caravan oasis of Palmyra. With a sketchbook in hand, I walked along the main street. Once a grand avenue over one kilometre long, it was flanked by hundreds of monumental columns each with a bracket advertising the return of the caravan and its profit.
The desert wind swept through the remaining columns echoing the grunts and snorting of camels and I imagined crowds of traders and travellers in their fluttering colourful robes exchanging goods and stories, communicating in the many languages that intersected there.
On this mere ‘grain of sand’ of the Silk Road, I stood at the crossroads of civilizations and two narratives awoke within: Calvino’s Invisible Cities and the travels of Marco Polo. The former migrated into the infinite imaginative world for an imaginary Khan, whereas the latter travelled countless leagues to meet with the Kublai Khan. I had imagined both and experienced Venice, would destiny take me to Xanadu? I was awakened from my reveries by one of the officers: “It is time to go.”
I left Damascus never thinking that one day the Palmyra moment would be awakened by that morning phone call and spur me on to the land of Sichuan, the mysterious east, once crossed by the Silk Road and a pit stop of Marco Polo’s arduous journey.
I finished my coffee and opened my mail, letting myself be taken to China to imagine Spiralia.
