Ansel Adams Never Had a Day Like This

If you want to be a photographer, you have to get up early.  Ask anyone.  The Morning Light is the best, deepest, most interesting, greatest detail. 

I am a photographer.  But generally, I avoid the Morning Light by flopping a pillow over my head and burrowing more deeply under the covers.

However, I am on vacation.  I am on Sanibel Island.  I am told the the sunrises are beautiful.  I'd like to see one, and perhaps even get a photo of it.  I have a plan.

Night before, I pack my camera gear in the car.  Check the time for sunrise (6:58 AM!).  Set my alarm (6:30 AM!).  Lay out my clothes.  Measure out the coffee.  I'm ready!  Up for sunrise photos, for sure!

Sleep.  Ah, wonderful sleep.  Great dream, except for that annoying bird.  Elbow in my side. Husband: "Is that your alarm?".  Yes, it is.  Bolting from bed, I slam my thigh into the corner of the bedside table.  That smarts!  Locate the alarm.  6:33 AM.  Looking down, I watch blood in a thin rivulet drip down my thigh.  Pressure, must have pressure.  Stop the bleeding, wash the gouge, have to get band aids.  Okay, I've got this. 

Time a'wastin'.  It is now 6:45.  Make the coffee.  Realize I won't have time to drive to the Lighthouse before sunrise, so lie down a minute while the coffee brews.  MMMM.,.wake up, it is 7:45.  Okay, missed sunrise.  Bet there are some birds on the beach, though.

Grab my coffee, and head to the garage.  My cameras are in the trunk.  I pop the trunk, and lean into the space.  Bash my head on the trunk latch. Ouch!  Only a little blood, but I need ice for the goose egg.   Back upstairs, get ice, head to the beach with my coffee, my camera, my icebag. 

Get to the beach, and realize...need the bathroom.  Light is not good.  I'm in no mood to be creative and in love with the light.  Return to the condo, and find that Scott is awake.  It is 8:45 AM.  I have been up for over two hours, and not shot a single image.  Here's today's score:
Gouge in thigh:  one
Goose Egg on head: one
Sunrises:  zero
Bird photos: zero
Sleep:  not enough
Crankiness:  100%

Note to self.  The worst "food product" ever concocted is the No-Calories Margarita mixer.  Never ever purchase again.  Dump the mixer, shoot the shots of tequila.

Signore Spicy

Sunday, my last day in Rome, started out with a guided tour. Upon waking at the crack of 9:15 AM, I stuck my head out of the window to assess the weather.  Below me on the cobbled street, an absolutely gorgeous Italian man was giving a tour, in English, to a small group of tourists.  I listened, and am happy to report that he got it all right.  Yes, this is the Theater of Pompey.  Yes, Caesar was murdered here on the Ides of March, etc.  As he and his group were leaving, he glanced up at me, grinned, and saluted “Bon Giorno!”  I couldn’t help myself; I called “You are beautiful!”  He laughed, blew me a kiss, walked on.  That is a pretty good start to any day. 

The weather is perfect; slightly cloudy, about 70*, a breeze.  After coffee and a chocolate croissant in the Campo Fiori, I head to Plaza Navona.  Being Sunday, there are church bells pealing throughout the city.  The fountains in the Plaza are also singing, and families with children are chasing around the Plaza.  A few small dogs have been thrown into the fountains for their baths, and I still watch this with horror, hoping that their owners remember to fish them out.

Today I give some time to the Pantheon.  There is a worship service in there until noon, and then I enter.   The architecture of this building is incredible.  Without computers or electric tools, the Romans constructed a geometrically perfect temple.  Originally built in 27 BC, but reconstructed several times due to fire, it has been used for worship of one religion or another for over 1,400 years.  A basketball 142 feet in diameter would fit perfectly within the temple.  The only lighting is from an oculus (hole in the roof) which is 30 feet across.  The temple is designed so that, when it rains, the rain falls through the oculus onto the marble floor below.  The floor is slanted, and also has drain holes cut into the marble, to allow drainage.  What engineering!

The queen after whom the Margarita Pizza is named, is buried here.  Also Raphael.  There are other tombs and statues, but the Pantheon itself is the prize.

By the time I leave, the crowds are lined up to get in.  I head out to visit a few nearby churches, just to say that I did.   At the Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, I see a real oddity.  The marble statue of an elephant, designed by Bernini in 1667, graces the plaza in front of the church.  Out of the top of it rises a 6th-century BC Egyptian obelisk.  Inside this highly-decorated church is a statue by Michelangelo, "Risen Christ with the Cross". 

My favorite church is Sant'Ignazio di Loyola, or "Gesu".  It is a Jesuit church. Inside, the Baroque world has gone wild.  Frescos on the ceiling pretty much scare any sinners to live the good life.  There are frescos of nuns whipping Protestants. A statue of Martin Luther shows him holding a serpent while being stepped upon by a nun  This Jesuit church, established about the time of Martin Luther, obviously has a tale to tell, and it did not put its money on Martin Luther. 

I stay for a service (anyone who knows me has now fainted).  In Italian, the service is beautiful, and the soprano voice of the singer/organist sweeps sweetly through the immense space.  Spotlights flicker on and off during the service, and there is the usual stand up/sit down/put your right hand in, and wave it all about, etc., followed by the ubiquitous offering & communion.  At the end, however,  Apostles’ Creed and the Lord’s Prayer are recited.  Even in Italian, each is unmistakable and lovely, echoing through this space.

Back in Plaza Navona, I have my portrait drawn in charcoal.  I scoped out the artists this week, and one in particular is excellent at suggesting light, shadow, and personality.  While I sat, different groups of people came up to watch his creation.  While I could not see the portrait, the observers would cock their heads, talk among themselves, point at me, point at the paper, and sometimes give me a “thumbs-up” and a smile, as in, “this looks pretty good”. 

When the portrait is finished, I am allowed to look.  The artist, a definitely gifted, brilliant and wonderful man, removed 20 pounds and 30 years from my face.  I asked him, "Who is this?"  and he replied, "You, signore!"  It would have been a bargain at twice the cost, and I choose to believe that it is a remarkable likeness.  I am happy.

After a little rest, and figuring out my bus stops, I head out to the Appian Way.  I’d originally planned to bike on the Appian Way today, but once there, decide that it is too dangerous, and not worth the bang for its buck.  However, the bus ride itself, on this ancient road, is a journey back in time.  This main thoroughfare, built in 312 BC, eventually stretched from Rome to the seaport, Brindisi.  After Spartacus’ slave revolt in 71 BC, which was soundly crushed, the Roman powers-that-were crucified 6000 slaves along this road, one about every 30 yards for 100 miles.  Their bodies were allowed to dangle for months.  This was meant to discourage future rebellions, and from what Rick Steves tells me, was effective.

I tour the Catacombs of San Callisto, with its maze of underground tombs.  Between approximately 1000 AD and 4000 AD, a half-million persons, mostly Christians, along with a few stray popes, were buried here.  The catacombs themselves are high-walled caves in a maze with about 12 km of linear running room.   Get separated from your tour group, and someday someone may find your bones in a cold, dark room, and make you part of a tour.  It was creepy, interesting, sobering.

The bus from the Appian Way dumps out its passengers at the Circus Maximus.  I spend an hour or so walking around the area, taking photos.  What was once a gigantic stadium that held 250,000 people who were watching chariot races, today is a park with an elevated running track.  Families picnic here, people walk their dogs, joggers do what joggers do, and tourists like me wander, take pictures, and study the bus map.

Once back in my neighborhood, I am famished.  I stopp by “da Ottavia”, on the Corso del Rinascimento, because it 1) was by my bus stop, and 2) was where I’d eaten last night.  If you read last night’s post, you will know that it was here that I ate a green bean that turned out to be the hottest pepper ever grown in the universe.

When I appear in the door of the restaurant, a waiter spots me, and his face lights up.  “Signore Spicy!!!” he calls.  Ah, I am unforgettable!  “Buona sera” I greet him.  “Per Favore, vino and a small dinner.”  He seats me, brings wine, then says, “Let’s go”  (where?  Where are we going?).  He takes my arm, and we go into the kitchen.  Still holding my arm, he calls all of the kitchen staff to attention, and I hear Italian about the signore (me), the dinner last night, the pepper.  All are impressed.  Apparently, last night was a slow news night, so the idiocy of the American eating the Universe’s Hottest Pepper has been big news in da Ottavia.

The chef, from India, comes and shakes my hand.  He speaks in Italian, and my waiter translates. “He is happy that you lived”.  We all laugh.  I am also happy that I lived, and a little surprised.  Apparently, they are suprised as well.

My little dinner is steamed, oiled, delicious artichokes, fresh pizza dough served as bread, and a plate of thinly-sliced ham with the most delicious cantaloupe melon ever grown on earth.  My wine and lemoncello are “on the house”.    When I leave, the waiters are standing outside, trying to lure in diners.  They spot me, and call “Arrivederci,  Signore Spicy!”

I wander around some more, and locate the Abbey Theater.  This is a nearby Irish Pub that has about 20 satellite TV’s.  As it is 7 PM, and noon Central Standard Time US, it is almost time for Sunday NFL football.  I find a stool, and watch a quarter of the Saints/Carolina game, the Ravens/Eagles game, and Tampa Bay/Giants.  I’m not interested enough in any of these games to spend more time here, so I head back to Plaza Navona. 

There are some fine musicians playing on the Square, but tonight one is playing “Volare”, one is playing an ancient song by “Sting”, and I hear Pachelbel’s Canon for about the 1000’th time on the accordion.  At least there are no bag pipes, and no Mack the Knife.

I return to my apartment, pack, and am typing this.  In a few minutes, I head out for a later dinner.  This is my last post from Rome.  I leave at 7 AM Monday.  Good-bye, gentle readers.  If this has been too much information, I apologize.  I have written this for my mother.  She will never get to Rome.  And so, I have written this blog so that she might appreciate the city, and perhaps feel that she is walking these streets, seeing these sites, hearing and smelling this city.  I hope that she even gets a little taste of that hot pepper! Arrivederci.

Poisonous green beans

It is Saturday in Rome.  I make my way to Borghese Gallery after eating the most delicious custard croissant ever baked, and downing one of the tiny cups of Caffe Americano that passes for “morning coffee” in Rome.  I could drink 10 more of these and still not equal the volume of coffee that I typically drink.

I have vertigo today.  This is the first time in my life I’ve suffered from it, but it is unmistakable.  I am dizzy, and cannot stand, unless my head is tilted back and I am looking at the ceiling,  This must be some hold-over from yesterday at the Sistine Chapel.

While Wednesday’s visit to the Borghese focused on paintings and sculptures, today I study the frescos and paintings on the ceilings (see paragraph #2).  Talk about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse…The ceilings were entirely ignored in my first visit, both by me and by my audio guide.  But they are stunning, and I am happy to be sitting on a chair, with my neck torqued to the ceiling.

Today’s weather is moderate, sunny, a light breeze, and a relief after two days of rain,  It seems that all of Rome enjoys  Borghese Park.  I spend a few hours wandering around the park, drinking peach iced tea, and listening to the street musicians.  One in particular, a Ukrainian accordionist, is quite talented.  He was on my bus this morning, and told me that he is traveling for as long as he can, and earning money as he goes by playing his accordion.  While he is quite talented, he apparently has memorized only 3 songs, so I wish him well.

I sit at a park fountain, soaking up the sun, and watching some kids play soccer.  Three women, each with two small dogs,  wander by.  As they speak Italian, I do not anticipate their actions.  They suddenly bend down, unleash their dogs, pick them up roughly and fling the dogs into the walled fountain.  What is this, Dog Murder before my eyes?  While the dogs flail and dog-paddle in the fountain, and I practice my doggie CPR, the women chat and take phone calls.  Finally, the ladies scooped their dripping, exhausted puppies out of the fountain, and all are on their way.  Everyone was nonchalant except for me.

Today I needed a rest day, and took it  My afternoon nap was luscious.  At 4:30, I packed up my gear and went into Plaza Navona.  What a stunning sight!  Unlike the rest of the week, the Plaza is packed with people.  There are tour groups following umbrellas, lots of families, the obvious deer-in-the-headlights-Americans, a few gypsies, some discrete pickpockets, many police, and lots of performance artists.  I watched some knife jugglers, break dancers, mimes, and musicians playing accordion, guitar, marimba.  Quite a sight, but the crowd got to be a bit cloying.

I decided to walk until I got lost, then figure out where I end up, and find a bus home.  Just for the experience.  What I discover is, I cannot get lost.  I always know where North is, and have a sense of where I am in the city.  I wander to the Pantheon, and have a late lunch in an Osteria on its plaza.  Three travelers from Ohio join me, and a couple from Australia.  Even though the Ohio people are Republicans, we manage to talk civilly about Rome and travel.

The light is low and golden, so I excuse myself to take photos.  The Pantheon is mysterious, and the light on its fountains is magic.  Horses with hand-embroidered hats and polished hoofs are pulling carts of tourists.  The fake gladiators harangue the tourists, and once in awhile even make a Euro for their obnoxiousness.

As I walk, I shoot.  Fountains, obelisks, children, street scenes.  This is photography’s gift- to allow me to focus on an element, enjoy it, try to capture it.

The Trevi Fountain is a disaster.  Many beggars, too many people.  Begging boys whose legs appear to have been broken at a much earlier age, and are scooting themselves around while lying on skateboards, with the contractures causing their toes to touch.  There are some beggars who are blind, and one woman who is obviously emotionally disturbed and keeps removing parts of her clothing.  This side of Rome is new and disturbing to me.

I am so thankful that I was here earlier in the week, and could appreciate the beauty without the riff-raff and the sorrow. 

I stop at a Flor for gelato.  I have discovered that asking the scoopers, “whatever you think I’d like”, gets me an interesting mix of flavors.  I enjoy my gelato, but feel melancholy for the state of these ruined lives. I move on.

There are a zillion souvenir stores on these side streets, and I zing through a few.  I finally buy some coffee mugs, and am chatting with the shop owner when someone comes in and says something very animated to the owner in a language that I do not recognize. The shopkeeper agrees, nods, smiles, and after the customer moves on, I ask her, “what did he say?”  She answers, in heavily accented English, “I have no idea”.  I crack up, and so does she.  It was my best laugh of the day.

On the way home, I stop at an Osteria for dinner.  I ask the waiter to bring me “whatever is good”, and I receive a fabulous seafood and linguine dish.  The sauce is thin, but rich, spicy, and reeking with ripe tomatoes.  I scoop it up with the mussel shells, slurping it by the teaspoonful.

On top of the pasta is a fresh green bean.  Just one.  That’s odd.  I pick it up, bite it in two, and suddenly my mouth is on fire.  This is no green bean, but a hot hot (HOT!) pepper.  By the time I get it out of my mouth, fire extinguishers have been unhooked, the fire trucks are on the way, and I’m on the floor in the “stop-drop-and-roll” position, expecting my entire face to incinerate.

Okay, so I am perhaps just a little melodramatic.

But this was one hot pepper!  Now I know that peppers can actually cause burns on the roof of one’s mouth.  I also know that bread helps to temper the burn, wine a little, but when really suffering from the pepper, one is pretty much paralyzed.  Believe me, I am glad that I didn’t buy a pound of “green beans” in the Campo Fiori this morning!  This is a lesson that I will not have to learn twice.

My waiter tells me that the crowds tonight are “nothing” compared to the crowds in April, May, and June.  Through some serendipity, it appears that I’m visiting during less craziness.  Tomorrow is my last day.  We shall see how this visit ends.

Popes, Pomp, and Circumstance

Friday, September 14, 2012. Could there be a better day than today? It is hard to imagine. Today was Vatican Day. I had 9:00 AM  tickets for the Vatican Museum, and managed to be at the Vatican, checked in, and ticketed by about 8:45. Anyone who knows me is not surprised by this. At the Vatican, one gets extra points for promptness, so I was in the Pinacoteca (Picture Gallery) by 8:50.

The Vatican Pinacoteca is room upon room of paintings with the recurring themes of joyful birth in a manger/bloody death on a cross. However, the last painting before leaving the picture gallery is Wenzell Peter’s “Adam and Eve in the Garden Of Eden”. An ethnologist in the 1800’s, Peters portrayed over 240 species of animals in this painting, each with its own personality, expression, and behavior. It is an incredible painting, haunting, complex, and one that I spent about half an hour studying.

For no good reason, I had decided not to speak to anyone else today, and by 10 AM had said nothing more than “Café Americano, per favore” “Gracia” and “Buon Giorno”. However, during my second breakfast, I met a woman from Croatia who needed an (emotional) lift, and so we talked about Rome, Catholics, and Life. I had lunch with a traveling couple from Canada, then waited in line for St. Peter’s Cupola with a couple from Holland. They were bemusing. The husband had spent a week in Las Vegas, and now feels himself to be an expert on all things American. He just didn’t want to believe an alternative view to gambling, neon lights, huge meals, and prostitutes. I invite him to Big Sky, and we will see if he ever accepts the invitation. His wife would, for sure, but he thinks that those musical fountains in Las Vegas pretty much define the US of A.

Today was a most excellent day to spend with popes, past and present. It was raining cats and dogs in the morning. I was wearing my raincoat, thanks to my husband, yet every 6 feet was asked by a vendor if I wanted to buy either 1) an umbrella, or 2) a poncho. Heads up, fella! I'm wearing a hooded raincoat! Thanks to Rick Steves for the accurate tour guide info. His advice got me out of the rain and into the museum with little fuss

The Vatican Museum is set up for crowds, which is a good thing, because crowds are what it gets.
Most of the crowds come in tour groups of 20 to 30 persons, some larger. Tour guides, waving various colored umbrellas, roses, fans, wooden shoes, plastic daisies, and walking sticks trailing scarves,  rush from site to site.  

Their gaggle of tourists cluster close, and block the views of artwork for everyone else.  After a frantic minute at a site, the group scurries on.  Tours are two hours long, and there is a lot of information and real estate that they need to cover in that time!  The tour guides reminded me of motherly sows, with their brace of suckling piglets sticking close to Mother Pig, rushing through this gorgeous space.

Disclaimer: I will admit that, when I wanted to know something about a piece of art, I’d find an English-speaking tour guide/group, and linger on the edges. I figured that this was about the same as stealing Internet. Victimless, if not really legal.

Note to any tourist: if you must have a tour guide, pay the extra euros and choose a group of no more than four tourists. At least, you'll have some control over the pace of the tour.  Ask for a tour guide who is a native English speaker.  I heard quite a few tour guides whose heavily-accented English was practically unintelligible. If you want to hear the names and coronation dates of every pope and cardinal, there is also the option of the Vatican's "rent a priest" tours. Tourists in these groups started out looking fresh, but by the end, appeared dazed and stunned.

The Vatican Museum is a series of separate museums strung together, such as the Pinacoteca, Egyptian, Greek, Tapestry, Modern Art, etc.  I loved the wing of Egyptian treasures. Here, there are mummies, sarcophagi, and treasures from tombs. The Egyptian wing included letters written in cuneiform on thick clay tablets about the size of a cell phone. These were then sealed in envelopes of clay, into which the address was pressed with a stylus. Who’d imagine that Egyptians would have a postal system? I’d love to know to whom these letters were addressed, and what they said.

The Round Room intrigued me.  Ancient Romans took Greek ideas, and sculpted/shaped them into their own use. The mosaic floor, once in a Roman bath, is a spectacular series of water gods and goddesses along with sea monsters, emerging from the sea. This floor captivated me, and I walked bent low around the large rotunda, examining the craftsmanship of it. Escher probably got his inspiration from the design of the edging. Imagining the artists cutting and gluing the tiny tiles for the teeth of the sea monsters, the eyes of the mermaids, gave me intense appreciation for their talents.

In this room is my favorite all-time sculpture, Hercules. This bronze statue was unearthed in 1884 right by my apartment, where it had been buried after being struck by lightning. Hercules is 12 feet tall, with a gnarled club, the skin of a beast draped over his arm, and a later-added stupid fig leaf covering his groin. He has the best butt of any male sculpture in Rome.  You can take that to the bank, because by day 5 of my visit, I am an expert on this particular minutiae.

There are many wonderful human statues in the Vatican collection. They include toga-draped women holding (oh, you name it) doves, apples, scepters, flaming torches, cups, harps, asps, small dogs…about the only thing they aren’t holding is a Starbuck’s coffee.

Then, there are the statues of men. Men do not hold things (except occasional weapons). They point. They point North (to heaven), Left (to summon help), Right (to summon the wife to put down that damn dove and get them a coffee), and South (for sweet iced tea).

On fig leaves: When originally sculpted, the men were manly from all planes. Somewhere along the way, the popes decided that fig leaves were more acceptable than the sculptor's view of the dangly bits. The papal solution was fig leaves. Fig leaves? Really? When celebrating the beauty of the human body, why do we need fig leaves blown in ala a Forrest-Gump feather-a-thon? There they stick, one per man, unnaturally glued to body parts that, on their own, are as natural as apples, doves, and all of those exposed breasts?   The papal fig leaves look ridiculous, and to my mind, ruin the integrity of the statues.  I had several rants today.  This is one of them.

Let’s go to the tapestry and map area of the Vatican. This is a quarter-mile-long stretch of opulence that used to be apartment rooms for the Popes. There are tapestries that, if sold, would feed a small nation. Maps that, if sold, might end the suffering in Haiti. Mosaic floors that, if sold, would educate millions in the slums of India. It was excesses like these that inspired Martin Luther to leave the Roman Catholic Church in order to found his own religion. The treasures are interesting and appalling.

I got to the Vatican at 9 AM opening.   By 2 AM, I’d had two breakfast breaks, two lunch breaks, met couples from Vancouver and Holland, and generated enough righteous cynicism to earn myself a heretic burning at the stake. Time for the Sistine Chapel.

The Sistine Chapel was the disappointment of my life. After following signs, reading interminable tour-book descriptions, and avoiding myriad suckling tour groups, I am finally in the Sistine Chapel. The Sistine Chapel of my guidebooks…of every tourist who ever traveled to Rome…of my dreams. I trip in, to the chorus of gendarmes screaming “Quiet!!!!!” No Fotos!!!” The chapel is high, long, dark. Banks of long windows, high overhead, emit dim, diffused light. The figures on the ceiling are dark, indistinct, muddy, without detail. I thought, “Why do people get so excited about this Sistine Chapel?”

I slump dejectedly on a bench along the wall, and fish out my Rick Steves info to see if he has any insight into why so much fuss has been made about a shadowed and indistinguishable ceiling. Maybe I’d just go have a cappuccino and call it a day.

Then I looked up. While the light from the high windows is still filtered and pale, my eyes have adjusted to this light.  I realize that Michelangelo painted IN this light, and FOR this light. The images lift from their backgrounds. I see the frescos as Michelangelo painted them, fresh and vibrant. Bodies captured both reserved and in action, nurturing, cruel, puzzled, astonished, grieving, human. Images that suck me in, colors that will not release me, movement and stillness insisting that I see Michelangelo's vision of our common humanity. I am astonished.

I begin to weep. At first I do not even realize that I am crying. Another woman, also weeping, hugs me. Where did she come from? I am lost, I am found. My tears came from a deep place that I cannot name.

This masterpiece captures all of Life’s dreams, tragedies, efforts, loves, disappointments. This is not a religious work. This is a human masterpiece. I move from side to side in the room, and leave only when I fear that my neck will break off from looking up. I am moved, transported, and forever changed..

Even a flawed Church that nurtures and provides opportunity for such a genius deserves to be accepted and thanked.

Is there a graceful segue out of the chapel? I don’t think so. I am exhausted, and it is 3:30 PM.  After stumbling out of the Sistine Chapel, I rest a little, then find the line for the Cupola to St. Peter’s Dome. An elevator, a bunch of narrow steps, and we are high inside the dome of St. Peter’s. More steps, and we are outside on the Cupola, with a panorama of Rome.

For readers who have been in the Wisconsin State Capitol and its dome, the St. Peter’s Dome would be familiar.  This may sound appalling, but forgive me, Michelangelo, Wisconsin's dome is a close second to yours. St. Peter’s and Wisconsin’s domes both present mosaics, height, marble, more mosaics, filtered light, even more marble, and narrow, claustrophobic passages. The St. Peter’s Cupola, however, provides a panoramic view of Rome that clearly defines the Seven Hills of Rome, the Tiber River, the Vatican Grotto, Trastevere.  This view is slightly more impressive than the view down State Street and up Bascom hill. Rome has more domes, fewer Badgers t-shirt shops.

After the Dome, I descend into St Peter’s Basilica itself. St. Peter, “The Fisher of Men”, was a humble, down-to-earth, easy-to-talk-to, saint-in-waiting. He was crucified upside-down within this church space, possibly buried here, and now has the most impressive cathedral on earth named after him. Go figure.

With statues 20 feet high, and an altar 7 stories tall, St. Peter’s Basilica is designed to impress. Impress it does, with gold, marble, frescos, mosaics, sculptures. This church was funded by Catholics who were coerced by the Church to pay “indulgences” so that they would get into heaven despite their sins.  I am a cynic  The Basilica is just a bit too over the top for my taste.

After the Vatican Museum, St. Peter’s Dome, and the Basilica, I went to St. Peter’s Square. I thought that I would see if Rick Steves’ hoards of pickpockets and/or gypsies came to accost me. The square is mostly deserted, though, as the Vatican is now closed.  But I was struck by how the square is divided into hundreds of wooden “corrals”, like cattle yards.

When the Pope decides to come outside his quarters, he confronts his faithful, corralled into these wooden, beige cattle pens, which are locked with iron bars. He walks up stairs that are reserved only for him, guarded by a young boy dressed as a clown, and then he looks down into his stockyard. What does that feel like? I wonder if he ever wishes that he could have a few drinks with his faithful, connect, watch a Packers game, tell or hear a stupid joke, and laugh. Maybe have a buddy walk on those stairs with him.

I took the wrong bus home, far past my stop, but managed to find my way home without too much angst. After a shower and clean-up, dinner was at “Ristorante Da Pancrazio”, about 40 steps from my front door.  Some ruins of the Theater of Pompey were discovered inside this restaurant during basement excavation, and are still displayed here. A severed stone head of Caesar, some column pieces, mosaic rubble, are jumbled into an alcove as one goes downstairs to the walls of the ancient theater. The whole restaurant vibrates with the past.

The Ristorante Da Pancrazio is a lucky find. The paintings on the walls are from 1890. The ceiling is all high timbers, dark and comforting. Tables are warmed with good-quality, gold tablecloths and napkins, My waiter is patient, un-patronizing, helpful. Dinner is linguini with shrimp & rocket, eggplant parmesan, a simple salad, wonderful breadsticks, and wine.

I eat, drink wine, think about my day. I am content.  I take my time. The more wine I drink, the more content I become. Two women dine nearby. Both are tour guides. They tell me that they dump their tour groups at a nearby tourist-y restaurant, and then come here for an authentic, and reasonably-priced, meal. When they leave, one sends another glass of wine to my table.

I weave my 40 steps to my front door. Sleep will be blissful tonight.

Alice in Wonderland

It is Thursday in Rome, with rain off and on from rain clouds that scuttle across the sky.  When there is a break in the clouds, rays of sunshine break through and light up the buildings, people, monuments.  Tonight, in the Plaza Navona, there was lightning in the north and sun to the south.  Cameras were clicking in the beautiful light.

As I am typing this, a group of young men and women are skipping below my window, singing "We're off to see the wizard...because, because, because, because, be-CAUSE, because of the wonderful things he does..."  I hear their voices trail off toward Plaza Navona.

I slept poorly last night, and woke up grumpy.  On the bus to meet Iliana for coffee, she called and asked if we could meet an hour later, and in a different location.  I told her, "Another day, perhaps" because I 1) didn't want to waste more of the morning waiting for her, and 2) I was grumpy.

To solve my mood, I visited the Capitoline Museum and Piazza del Campidoglio.  The Capitoline Hill is one of Rome's seven hills.  The site of the main square was, in ancient Rome, a religious center.  The remains of a massive temple to Jupiter are still on the sight, and one can touch some of the foundation stones!  There is also a small fountain there from which I filled my water bottle, still hoping to find the Fountain of Youth.

The Piazza itself was designed by Michelangelo in the 1500's, and was unique at the time.  One has to walk up a long set of broad steps to get to the Piazza, which makes me wonder why, if Michelangelo was such a smart guy, he didn't manage to put some benches in the Piazza, and maybe a coffee & chocolate croissant stand (remember, I was grumpy).  A reproduction of the equine statue of Marcus Aurelius (Roman Emperor, 161-180 AD) stands in the square, with the original being the museum.  This statue is so powerful, so full of energy, that it feels as though the horse will come barrelling off his pedestal.  As stirrups hadn't been invented yet in Europe, it is hard to imagine Marcus A. managing to stay on that charger.

The Capitoline Museum is the oldest art museum known, and established before Columbus failed to find the Far East.  The Greek and Roman sculptures are sumptuous, but after awhile it feels a little bit like being at an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.  I...just...can't...process...one...more...statue...

My favorite thing in the museum, in fact, was a Roman Chariot.  I didn't know that chariots were made of wood!  The body of the chariot was made of soaked and bent bands of wood, dove-tailed together around a semi-circular base.  The wood of the chariot, in this case, was covered with a thin brass patina of intricately carved brass figures re-enacting battle scenes.  Even the wheels and axles were wooden, and showed marks from the wood-workers chisels.

Part of the museum is the Tabularium, a separate building which housed the ancient scrolls of Roman laws.  The Tabularium is perched high on the hill, with wonderful views into the Forum.  The path to the overlook is poorly marked, and involves many steps, so I pretty much had the place to myself.  It was raining, but the sun shown patchily, settling on the Temple of the Vestal Virgins and Caesar's Tomb.   Tour groups with scores of open umbrellas paraded below through the Forum.  I am redundant to say that the moment was magical, but I'm saying it anyway.  The moment was magical.

I spent 5 hours at the museum, rested in a park overlooking the Forum, then made my way to my bus, and to home.  I was exhausted, and must have looked it because a woman gave her up seat to me on the bus.  And the absence of an elevator in my building just about had me sleeping on the first-floor landing.

After my nap, I went to the grocery store (List: yogurt, wine.  Short list).  Then, after double-checking my morning bus stops. I strolled to Plaza Navona.  As I said, the light was beautiful.  It was raining lightly, but still people were out and about with umbrellas. Artists had art displayed, and the vendors selling light toys were all over throwing their toys into the air.

Plaza Navona contains some of the most massive fountains in Rome.  The central one, designed by Bernini, pays homage to the four great rivers of the world, and the river gods. Water was important to ancient Rome, and brought into the city via Aqueducts.  These, in turn, flowed into fountains from which the populace drew their water.  Over time, many of these fountains have been decorated into works of art with beautiful and bizarre sculptures.  These are now huge tourist draws and great people-watching sites.  Mostly, one sees people taking pictures of each other in front of the fountains, rather than spending any time at all actually studying the marvelous sculptures. 

However, there are small fountains scattered throughout the city that one encounters when stumbling around.  These are totally overlooked by the tour groups, and to me are more interesting.  I happened upon one the other day where the statue in the fountain was a young woman, standing in a draped tunic.  Her breasts were exposed, and the water in the the fountain was shooting in wide arcs out of her perky nipples. I would have loved to have had my 6-year-old nephew, Preston, there at that moment, asking his not-to-be-denied questions... This particular fountain was ancient. At the cistern, rope cuts from people hauling heavy buckets of water up and over the side, are etched into the marble.

Today, I saw a bike hit a car.  However, because it was a Smart Car, it appeared that the car got the worst of it.  The biker appeared to be unhurt, and everyone kissed good-bye.

The scale of this city is so different from anything I've seen before.  The buildings are massive.  Not tall, but massive.  Long, wide, with gigantic doors and high windows, ornamented to the hilt, beautifully colored, and packed together with the thinnest of roads between these behemoths. 

In contrast to these massive buildings, tiny little cars and trucks share the streets with millions of motorbikes.  Even the street sweeper trucks are minuscule, with little brushes on their bottoms about the size that Scott uses to wax his car. Garbage trucks are the size of golf carts, and how a prone body fits into an ambulance is a mystery to me.

There is an Alice-in-Wonderland quality to the city. Am I dwarfed by the buildings, or am I a giant among the vehicles? 

Motorbikes apparently have no laws except "you must wear a helmet".  At a red light, all of the motorbikes queue to the front of the line, waiting for the green.  When the light turns, these 20 or 30 bikes all buzz out at once, sounding like so many angry bees. 

The Smart Cars have horns that have the threatening power of a bleating lamb.  Even the buses have subdued horns, as I found out when I thought I heard the "Meep-Meep" of Roadrunner, and looked over my shoulder to see a full-size bus bearing down on me. This is not the land of insistent GM horns or an OO-Ga horn blaring "On Wisconsin". 

All in all, with the bleating sheep, the bees, and the roadrunner, the streets are practically pastoral.  The aggressive rush of New York, where cabbies will happily run you down while blaring their horn, is absent in the part of the city that I call home.

Tomorrow, The Vatican. 

First Impressions, Second Thoughts, Last Words

1)      Traveling solo is not the same as traveling alone.  Whenever I want human contact, there it is.  The easiest “in” is to watch a couple or a family setting a timer for a photo with all of them in it, and then ask if I can take it for them instead.  Happy, happy; smile, smile.  Offering my street map or my bus map to someone looking perplexed and lost also works.  Smile, smile. 

2)      Almost all Italians I’ve met know at least a little bit of English.  However, everyone appreciates the few Italian phrases that I learned.  Either that, or their smiles are at my pronunciation.  One waiter told me, none-too-kindly, that my attempt at Italian actually sounds like Japanese.  However, he gave me a free glass of wine to make up for his brutal honesty, so all is forgiven.

3)      The hardest moment of each day is walking out of the door in the morning.  Even though I desperately want to experience the day, I also feel nervous about the challenges and the unknowns ahead. Part of me wants to burrow back under the covers. I tamp down that anxiety and take a deep breath. Once on the street, it passes and I’m good to go. 

4)      After reading every guide book on Rome published in English, I proclaim that Rick Steves’ “Rome 2012” is the best by far.  Rather than carrying the whole book each day, I tear out the pages that I will need and take them with me.  His advice is practical, accurate, and sometimes brutally honest.    

5)      Fodor’s “See It Rome” has great colored photos and excellent detailed info on the history of sites.  I enjoy reading it either before I head out, or as a recap after I’ve explored an area.  But it is heavy, being printed on heavier paper, and its small, dim font requires good light and reading glasses. 

6)      The National Geographic “Walking Rome” has turned out to be rather useless.  What it says are “walks” are actually just maps with sites listed, and straight lines drawn to connect the sites.  The lines don’t map out the walking route, but would work fine if I could fly like a bird. Stupid book.

7)      There are maps, and then there are maps.  The best Rome map is “Streetwise Rome”.  I have two other Rome street maps, but “Streetwise” is the only one that all of the streets named on it.  Why “Eyewitness” or the Rome tourist office would bother to print maps with only the main thoroughfares labeled is beyond me.  It is not at all helpful to be lost with a map that is a tic-tac-toe crosshatch of unnamed streets.

8)      The Metro Roma bus map, though costing 6 Euro, is worth its weight in gold.  While it only names the streets that have bus stops, it does show ALL of the bus stops and routes. Of all of the Rome bus maps for sale, its font size and darkness is easiest to read.

9)      Fresh pasta is its own special food group, right behind good chocolate.  It seems to be completely unrelated to that boxed macaroni.

10)  Gelato is also its own wonderful food group.  Tonight I ordered my gelato, and asked the scooper to “Surprise me”.  She had fun putting together wonderful dark chocolate and a scrumptious mint chocolate.  Together, they were heaven.

11)  While dining late is fun, it is a bad idea to drink Expresso at 11 PM unless one wants to wake up at 3:15 AM and type this list.