To enter the center of Perugia,
one is always climbing. Rocking and surfing on the metrobus, one hand on the
bright red railing above my head, the other looping through the headrest of
some short-haired woman’s chair, the bus climbs up looping hills to the
escalators. And even the escalators, located in the belly of some stone-walled
castle, brick after brick creating a dimly lit tunnel of steps and escalation, one climbs that tunnel-way
until finally, Perugia bursts free, open and cool in the steady movement of its
shop-infested streets. But before that, we have to make a stop first. There, in
the tunnels, postered off by a large sign punctured with Superman legs—Perugia
Comic Con, an opportunity to nerd away from home. Slipping past glass doors and
a group of heaving cosplayers smattered on the stairwell, I first notice the
heat, that seems, like another person, to also climb: up the stairs, through
the bodies, existing everywhere at once. Once up the stairs, the heat breaks
off into a tangible passion—embodied by the shuffle of people—shoppers, dealers
(distinguishable only by their wary, suspicious glances) and the glossy array
of colored comics, lined up on the shelves and taking the walls as if it was
their own. We pay our fee and branch off to some less cluttered section of the
con, a passageway dotted with frames of James Bond movie posters, that winds
backwards until it empties into a tunnel, dark and shrinking, almost separate
from the noise and tussle of the convention. We decide to turn back, but before
we go we capture the moment: all of us, posed and smiling while some great
darkness looped behind us, and we ignored it, unabashed and never fazed.
My first time entering a convention
shook me, core-bound, until everything in me was displaced enough to refill
with an indiscernible thrill. Unlike in Perugia, this was a large convention in
America, lasting a span of three long days and offering a lot more than tunnel
space and a small group of sweaty, satisfied cosplayers.
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