Snow continued in the early morning, but the skies cleared for a while. Sue and Ruth are ahead of me in the recuperating department, and they went to Ruth’s office so Sue could catch up on some email. I slept until 12:30, then felt well enough to shower and eat some bread It stayed put, so progress made.
The clouds resumed, Sue and Ruth returned, and we decided go to L’Accademia. Sue and I have both been there before, but she really wanted to see David again. Off we went on the #7 bus to Piazza San Marco. A quick stroll, absolutely NO line (it's a clergy karma thing) and soon we were face to face - well, underfoot - with one of the great sculptures of the western world. OK, of the entire world.
David is a marvel. He dominates the space created for him, which, of course, is what’s intended. He’s still and yet, there’s energy, intense and yet there’s a quiet confidence too. He’s so different from Moses, which is still my favorite, to be honest.
Moses sits; David stands. Moses is mostly ‘human-size’, while David is more than twice as big as modern American man. Both characters are powerfully built and intensely focused. But Moses is a man, at the pinnacle, literally, of his heroic journey. He has nothing to prove; he only has to endure. David is a boy, on the precipice of toppling not only the giant, Goliath, and his Philistine horde, but the dynasty of Yahweh's anointed. The stone he throws carries his people to victory and him into the realm of mythic hero. In this moment, David becomes a giant himself. He is a force of nature: shepherd, poet, musician, guerilla, mercenary, lover, murderer. I can see why he’d appeal to the Renaissance Italians.
Michelangelo’s “Prisoners” grace the approach to the shepherd-king. They are wonderful beings breaking free of the marble that holds fast to them. Commissioned for the tomb of Julius II, they stand far from that pope’s actual burial site, a small spot in St Peter’s Basilica. Much like Moses, also commissioned for Julius’s tomb, the "Prisoners" have become works that stand as monuments to the sculptor and his stone rather than to the pope and his reign. They’re a fitting metaphor for the relationship between Michelangelo and Julius, who struggled to free themselves of one another and yet depended so deeply on the investment each had in the other.
We survey the rest of the museum and then walk around the Duomo. It's too late to enter, but it's entirely wonderful from the outside. This is the Florence of postcards, the terra cotta biretta set atop the ecclesiastical center of the city.
We find a small cafe, and though Ruth isn't keen, we have coffee before going back to the villa. Our little ristorante is closed, so we coerce Ruth into driving up the hill for a meal. We have a choice of pizza place or hotel restaurant. We choose the latter. It's a great location, with all the lights of Florence twinkling below. It's also the off-season, so there are only two other tables in use the entire time we're there.
It doesn't matter. The food is all right and company is both good and well. Tomorrow, we leave Italy and fly home. Florence has been a bit of a bust, to be honest, but it'll make a great anecdote - eventually.
We get back to the villa intact. No one feels ill. It's still chilly, but not cold. I have the space heater in my room and intend to use it. Sue decides to pack in the morning. I've already gotten my backpack ready and I'm guessing it's at about 19 lbs since I am bringing back a few of small items: a little leather bag, a scarf, some chocolate, a brochure about the Irish College, the ticket to the papal audience, and half a dozen or so postcards that I decided to keep for myself.
Tomorrow, I'll jot some notes from the road and sky. I'm really, really glad that I've had this time away. I've made some new friends and that's always good. I've had fun. It's been wearing on my body but renewing for my soul. I would do this again in a heartbeat, and I hope very much that I will.
Ciao.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Oh, the Weather Outside...
The forecast was correct. It’s snowing - not Maine snow, of course, but small, steady, fluffy flakes. Ruth says the Florentines are a little freaked out. She is very apologetic, as though the weather is something she could have, and should have, been able to fix.
It rarely snows here, and never in March. Sue is feeling the best of the lot and is designated to make the Coca-Cola run asap. We’re pretty much surviving on sips of Coke at the moment. She’s just about ready to head out now and Ruth is explaining how to get out of the villa gate. Oh yes, it’s the real deal - ten feet high on a couple of iron tracks and you need a key - not a wimpy, little thing from Schlage but a key like Quasimodo would have had to keep people out of the belfry.You get the idea.
One of the gardeners is burning brush, so we have that aroma wafting through the house. Frankly, it’s better than the other smells we’ve endured for the past day. Un-be-live-able.
Sue's Italian SIM works beautifully, so she's updated Mike, and asked that he contact other interested parties to let them know that while we’re not 100%, we are alive, well, and thinking of having tee shirts printed that say, “I survived the plague in Fiesole”.
We’re swapping novels, since none of us has much ambition for anything more challenging than a who-dunnit. Fortunately, we all have a murder mystery with us. That must mean something but at the moment, I don't much care what.
I’m trying to keep up with the daily blog, even though I can’t post. It’s a good way to keep track of the day-by-day things that can slip past in the midst of a holiday, like sightseeing or food poisoning.
The forecast for the remainder of our stay is for rain, then snow the day we leave, followed by sun and warming weather.
I guess we’ll just have to come back.
It rarely snows here, and never in March. Sue is feeling the best of the lot and is designated to make the Coca-Cola run asap. We’re pretty much surviving on sips of Coke at the moment. She’s just about ready to head out now and Ruth is explaining how to get out of the villa gate. Oh yes, it’s the real deal - ten feet high on a couple of iron tracks and you need a key - not a wimpy, little thing from Schlage but a key like Quasimodo would have had to keep people out of the belfry.You get the idea.
One of the gardeners is burning brush, so we have that aroma wafting through the house. Frankly, it’s better than the other smells we’ve endured for the past day. Un-be-live-able.
Sue's Italian SIM works beautifully, so she's updated Mike, and asked that he contact other interested parties to let them know that while we’re not 100%, we are alive, well, and thinking of having tee shirts printed that say, “I survived the plague in Fiesole”.
We’re swapping novels, since none of us has much ambition for anything more challenging than a who-dunnit. Fortunately, we all have a murder mystery with us. That must mean something but at the moment, I don't much care what.
I’m trying to keep up with the daily blog, even though I can’t post. It’s a good way to keep track of the day-by-day things that can slip past in the midst of a holiday, like sightseeing or food poisoning.
The forecast for the remainder of our stay is for rain, then snow the day we leave, followed by sun and warming weather.
I guess we’ll just have to come back.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Three Strikes; We're Out
Sue felt well enough to get up and have a bit of breakfast while Ruth and I got ready for the sightseeing bus tour. It’s much colder, maybe 40 degrees and windy. The sky is a milky white with a subtext of blue.
We get off the bus just once - to see San Croce, where Michelangelo, Galileo, Machievelli, and others are buried. The Medici chapel is there as well. The church is in the throes of extensive restoration (been there, done that, got the tee shirt) and it means that some of the gravesites are not visible. Dante is covered in plastic, something I’m sure he’d assign to about the seventh circle of hell, but Michelangelo’s tomb right next door is still visible. No flash permitted, but most of the photos turn out OK. I am especially taken with Galileo's tomb, where the Italian flag colors are displayed prominently.
We have time for lunch. Hindsight being 20/20, it would have been better for us to skip it. We had a pleasant enough meal in a charming little restaurant and resumed our seats on the bus. By the time we’d gotten to the hilltop neither of us felt great. By the time we were back at the villa, both of us felt pretty awful. Sue was resting but said she was a lot better. Good thing.
I was first to succumb to the food poisoning. Ugh. If you have a delicate stomach - skip a couple of paragraphs. I tried to rest after vomiting, but diarrhea made that impossible. Maybe Ruth has a much stronger, Teutonic, constitution. She held out for a couple more hours, then likewise was sick. Ironically, Sue ended up tending to both of us including sudden onslaught episodes during which neither of us could move from our respective rooms. FYI, there is one bathroom in the villa.
It’s always good to have a medical professional around, even one who’d just been in bed for nearly two days herself. I guess if she could cope with the lion in Kabul, we may have seemed quite tame.
What are the chances that three ordinarily healthy people would find themselves house-bound in Florence with such a round-robin of maladies? Well…it is the Day of the Woman.
On a more upbeat note: Mary found her passport at the travel agency that booked our train tickets to Florence. Her conference went well and she’s staying in Rome tonight with her friend from the US embassy. One of is having a great time, the heat has stayed on, and tomorrow is another day.
The weather forecast for tomorrow: snow.
We get off the bus just once - to see San Croce, where Michelangelo, Galileo, Machievelli, and others are buried. The Medici chapel is there as well. The church is in the throes of extensive restoration (been there, done that, got the tee shirt) and it means that some of the gravesites are not visible. Dante is covered in plastic, something I’m sure he’d assign to about the seventh circle of hell, but Michelangelo’s tomb right next door is still visible. No flash permitted, but most of the photos turn out OK. I am especially taken with Galileo's tomb, where the Italian flag colors are displayed prominently.
We have time for lunch. Hindsight being 20/20, it would have been better for us to skip it. We had a pleasant enough meal in a charming little restaurant and resumed our seats on the bus. By the time we’d gotten to the hilltop neither of us felt great. By the time we were back at the villa, both of us felt pretty awful. Sue was resting but said she was a lot better. Good thing.
I was first to succumb to the food poisoning. Ugh. If you have a delicate stomach - skip a couple of paragraphs. I tried to rest after vomiting, but diarrhea made that impossible. Maybe Ruth has a much stronger, Teutonic, constitution. She held out for a couple more hours, then likewise was sick. Ironically, Sue ended up tending to both of us including sudden onslaught episodes during which neither of us could move from our respective rooms. FYI, there is one bathroom in the villa.
It’s always good to have a medical professional around, even one who’d just been in bed for nearly two days herself. I guess if she could cope with the lion in Kabul, we may have seemed quite tame.
What are the chances that three ordinarily healthy people would find themselves house-bound in Florence with such a round-robin of maladies? Well…it is the Day of the Woman.
On a more upbeat note: Mary found her passport at the travel agency that booked our train tickets to Florence. Her conference went well and she’s staying in Rome tonight with her friend from the US embassy. One of is having a great time, the heat has stayed on, and tomorrow is another day.
The weather forecast for tomorrow: snow.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
O Solo Mio
It's a beautiful, sunny day - mild but the sunshine is very warming and therapeutic.
Sue is still sleeping but is world’s better. Coca-Cola has replaced Advil as the treatment of choice.
I prowl around the five hectares of garden. It's lovely, charming, bucolic. Ruth doesn't like having her photo taken but I manage to sneak in a long shot of her once in a while.
Sitting in the sun, I read (an old copy of Patricia Cornwell's From Potter's Field) and write (this blog and a couple of postcards). It's not too tough to shift the park-style bench to stay in the sun. I love sitting in the sun. When I'm home at my computer, I'm at a south-facing window. This is better. It's a quiet day and sometimes quiet is just what the doctor ordered.
It's a lot warmer outside than inside the villa, even though the landlady has come again to start the furnace and this time, it seems to be working properly. She's also brought us a couple of electric space heaters, just in case.
Around 7 pm, Ruth and I decide to leave Sue tucked in and locked up in the villa and we walk down the narrow, steep street to a little ristorante. Of course, we are seated next to an American expat because when you're in Fiesole in the off-season, there are loads of Americans around - not. We talk a little about the States (she's from New York) and then order our meal. It's the first real meal I've had since we left Rome and I choose pizza con melanzana. I love eggplant too.
It's a nice, light meal after which Ruth and I zip across the street to buy another litre of Coke before starting up the narrow, steep street. I am utterly stunned to see a young woman, maybe 20, sprint about 50 metres up the hill. She is either a world-class runner or she's scared someone or something is going to pop out from the ancient nooks and crannies in the stone walls that run the entire length of the street.
The heating situation has improved in the villa by the time we return. Sue occasionally appears to say she's feeling better and then collapses back into bed.
There are only a few days left before we head for home and there are things we want to see, places we'd like to go. I'm looking forward to having Sue back to her usual non-stop self. She wants to see David at L'Accademia. Ruth wants us to visit the European Institute where she's working while on sabbatical. I'd like to go to San Croce to see Michelangelo's and Galileo's tombs.
We'll see what tomorrow brings.
Sue is still sleeping but is world’s better. Coca-Cola has replaced Advil as the treatment of choice.
I prowl around the five hectares of garden. It's lovely, charming, bucolic. Ruth doesn't like having her photo taken but I manage to sneak in a long shot of her once in a while.
Sitting in the sun, I read (an old copy of Patricia Cornwell's From Potter's Field) and write (this blog and a couple of postcards). It's not too tough to shift the park-style bench to stay in the sun. I love sitting in the sun. When I'm home at my computer, I'm at a south-facing window. This is better. It's a quiet day and sometimes quiet is just what the doctor ordered.
It's a lot warmer outside than inside the villa, even though the landlady has come again to start the furnace and this time, it seems to be working properly. She's also brought us a couple of electric space heaters, just in case.
Around 7 pm, Ruth and I decide to leave Sue tucked in and locked up in the villa and we walk down the narrow, steep street to a little ristorante. Of course, we are seated next to an American expat because when you're in Fiesole in the off-season, there are loads of Americans around - not. We talk a little about the States (she's from New York) and then order our meal. It's the first real meal I've had since we left Rome and I choose pizza con melanzana. I love eggplant too.
It's a nice, light meal after which Ruth and I zip across the street to buy another litre of Coke before starting up the narrow, steep street. I am utterly stunned to see a young woman, maybe 20, sprint about 50 metres up the hill. She is either a world-class runner or she's scared someone or something is going to pop out from the ancient nooks and crannies in the stone walls that run the entire length of the street.
The heating situation has improved in the villa by the time we return. Sue occasionally appears to say she's feeling better and then collapses back into bed.
There are only a few days left before we head for home and there are things we want to see, places we'd like to go. I'm looking forward to having Sue back to her usual non-stop self. She wants to see David at L'Accademia. Ruth wants us to visit the European Institute where she's working while on sabbatical. I'd like to go to San Croce to see Michelangelo's and Galileo's tombs.
We'll see what tomorrow brings.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Under the Tuscan Weather
Mary’s off at 6:30 by taxi to catch the high speed train to Florence. She's going to a two-day conference and may join us afterward at the villa. Sue wants to do a day's bike tour of Florence. My knees are bothering me and I'm living on Advil, so biking doesn't really appeal to me in theory, but I'm open to seeing how I feel when the moment arrives.
Sue sleeps for a few more hours and after showering and organizing her stuff to be packed, we head up the road to L'800 for cappuccino and cornetti. Sue gets a text message from Mary in the train: she can't find her passport. Mary had everything in and out of her case, so we're pretty confident that she's just not looked in the right spot yet and the passport will turn up. We also agree that since she has a friend who works at the US embassy in Rome, she'll be able to get a replacement if the passport doesn't turn up in her stuff,
A quick stop at the ATM, back to the college, where we finishing packing and say farewell to the wonderful little cottage. We did not find Mary's passport. We leave our stuff in one of the meeting rooms in the college's main building and take off down the hill toward the Coliseum and then to San Pietro in Vincoli - St Peter in Chains - so Sue can see Moses. I lobbied for this walk instead of going out to St Paul outside the walls. On route, Sue stopped to try the public water/fountain trick (hold a finger over the downspout and a stream of drinking water comes through the top of the pipe).
The clock is ticking and so we get back to the college, phone for a taxi to the train station. The taxi is supposed to arrive in 3 minutes. Five minutes later, I ask the weekend receptionist to check on the taxi again. It shows up a few minutes later and takes what I now believe to have been the not-so-scenic route to Termini.
We arrive at Termini at 12:30 for a 12:45 train. We check the departure board and see three trains are leaving at 12:45, and one clearly says "Firenze". It is the farthest possible place from where we are. We start walking, my knees are killing me, Sue runs ahead, my knees are really killing me, we get on the train with about 30 seconds to spare. It starts moving. The conductor speaks and we catch something about 1808. That is not our train number. We have reservations on the high-speed train, one hour and 37 minutes to Florence, but we're on the slow train - four hours and 30 minutes to Florence. There's nothing we can do, so we find some forward-facing seats and tell ourselves this is an adventure. It's a spectacular day: bright blue sky and sunshine, the countryside is going by at a photograph-able speed, and we both have our passports!
Sue calls Ruth, who has already left the villa for the train station. Mary calls and says she has not found her passport. We eat cheese and bread and drink some Coca-Cola. Sue falls asleep. When she wakes, she complains a little about not feeling great. There's some train-fume smell, so I think between that and her long trip the day before, she's just wrung out. I break out the Advil, now one of my most precious possessions, for her and she goes back to sleep.
We finally arrive in Florence and meet Ruth. It's still a beautiful day and we take a cab to Villa Nieuwenkamp or Riposo dei Vescovi, the Bishops Resting Place, in Fiesole. W. O. J. Nieuwenkamp (1874-1950), was a Dutch artist who studied with Gauguin and was one of the first European artists to visit Bali. The Balinese influence is prominent in the villa. Nieuwenkamp bought the ruined villa in the early years of the 20th century and restored and renovated it in the styles he found true to its heritage and pleasing to his aesthetic. It's a proper villa, too. I'll put some of my photos up soon, but this a quick look courtesy of Wikipedia: Villa Nieuwenkamp
After unloading our bags, we have a quick look around and sit at the big center table chatting for a while. Sue still doesn't feel well and decides to take a nap. Not long after, she's sick - really sick. I think it's flu. Ruth is sure it's the water from the Roman spout.
Ruth and I keep checking on her but she just wants to sleep. I give her the other OTC meds I've taken along that might help and to some extent, they do, but sleep is the best healer for her. Ruth and I realize it's gotten chilly. In fact, the heating has failed. The landlady comes and gets the furnace running. Fifteen minutes later, it stops. Ruth calls the landlady and she returns and restarts the heating. It stops again. We don't phone and hunker down to wait out the night in the chilly villa. I decide to pretend that I'm a 17th century Italian bishop. Ruth just stays a stoic German.
Sue sleeps for 36 hours; Ruth and I talk, eat, read, and field messages from Mary, who’s still missing her passport.
Sue sleeps for a few more hours and after showering and organizing her stuff to be packed, we head up the road to L'800 for cappuccino and cornetti. Sue gets a text message from Mary in the train: she can't find her passport. Mary had everything in and out of her case, so we're pretty confident that she's just not looked in the right spot yet and the passport will turn up. We also agree that since she has a friend who works at the US embassy in Rome, she'll be able to get a replacement if the passport doesn't turn up in her stuff,
A quick stop at the ATM, back to the college, where we finishing packing and say farewell to the wonderful little cottage. We did not find Mary's passport. We leave our stuff in one of the meeting rooms in the college's main building and take off down the hill toward the Coliseum and then to San Pietro in Vincoli - St Peter in Chains - so Sue can see Moses. I lobbied for this walk instead of going out to St Paul outside the walls. On route, Sue stopped to try the public water/fountain trick (hold a finger over the downspout and a stream of drinking water comes through the top of the pipe).
The clock is ticking and so we get back to the college, phone for a taxi to the train station. The taxi is supposed to arrive in 3 minutes. Five minutes later, I ask the weekend receptionist to check on the taxi again. It shows up a few minutes later and takes what I now believe to have been the not-so-scenic route to Termini.
We arrive at Termini at 12:30 for a 12:45 train. We check the departure board and see three trains are leaving at 12:45, and one clearly says "Firenze". It is the farthest possible place from where we are. We start walking, my knees are killing me, Sue runs ahead, my knees are really killing me, we get on the train with about 30 seconds to spare. It starts moving. The conductor speaks and we catch something about 1808. That is not our train number. We have reservations on the high-speed train, one hour and 37 minutes to Florence, but we're on the slow train - four hours and 30 minutes to Florence. There's nothing we can do, so we find some forward-facing seats and tell ourselves this is an adventure. It's a spectacular day: bright blue sky and sunshine, the countryside is going by at a photograph-able speed, and we both have our passports!
Sue calls Ruth, who has already left the villa for the train station. Mary calls and says she has not found her passport. We eat cheese and bread and drink some Coca-Cola. Sue falls asleep. When she wakes, she complains a little about not feeling great. There's some train-fume smell, so I think between that and her long trip the day before, she's just wrung out. I break out the Advil, now one of my most precious possessions, for her and she goes back to sleep.
We finally arrive in Florence and meet Ruth. It's still a beautiful day and we take a cab to Villa Nieuwenkamp or Riposo dei Vescovi, the Bishops Resting Place, in Fiesole. W. O. J. Nieuwenkamp (1874-1950), was a Dutch artist who studied with Gauguin and was one of the first European artists to visit Bali. The Balinese influence is prominent in the villa. Nieuwenkamp bought the ruined villa in the early years of the 20th century and restored and renovated it in the styles he found true to its heritage and pleasing to his aesthetic. It's a proper villa, too. I'll put some of my photos up soon, but this a quick look courtesy of Wikipedia: Villa Nieuwenkamp
After unloading our bags, we have a quick look around and sit at the big center table chatting for a while. Sue still doesn't feel well and decides to take a nap. Not long after, she's sick - really sick. I think it's flu. Ruth is sure it's the water from the Roman spout.
Ruth and I keep checking on her but she just wants to sleep. I give her the other OTC meds I've taken along that might help and to some extent, they do, but sleep is the best healer for her. Ruth and I realize it's gotten chilly. In fact, the heating has failed. The landlady comes and gets the furnace running. Fifteen minutes later, it stops. Ruth calls the landlady and she returns and restarts the heating. It stops again. We don't phone and hunker down to wait out the night in the chilly villa. I decide to pretend that I'm a 17th century Italian bishop. Ruth just stays a stoic German.
Sue sleeps for 36 hours; Ruth and I talk, eat, read, and field messages from Mary, who’s still missing her passport.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Singin' in the Rain
Mary arrived by taxi around 8 am. After giving her a little time to get settled and showing her a bit of the Irish College, we left on an errand of mercy to get an Italian SIM card for Sue's phone. I'd seen a Vodafone store the day before on route to Pompi, the tiramisu haven, so we headed in that direction.
Happily, we found the store and Mary was able to buy the card. One needs to produce a passport to buy the SIM card. That seemed odd to me, but I suppose technology being what it is, mobile phones can be used to detonate more than phone calls.
It turned out that Mary is a fan of tiramisu, so we went back to Pompi. Neither of us had tiramisu, instead choosing from the mounds of gelato in the case.
After a quick stop at the supermarket (not Di per Di) we returned to the cottage and then explored some of the Irish College amenities, specifically the tennis court. The court also has a couple of basketball backboards and a football (soccer) net. I found one fairly inflated basketball and shot a few hoops.
Sue arrived in a Mercedes around 3. After getting her things into the cottage, the three of us went to L'800 for a quick coffee and then headed down the hill toward the Coliseum. On the way, we stopped at a travel agency to get our train tickets for the next day. Mary was leaving at 7 am; Sue and I booked the 12:45 train.
It started to rain. Sue bought a small umbrella and was assured that it was guaranteed for three years. Three minutes later, the wind had blown it inside out and bent at least one rib irreparably. Sue is a real trooper, so she took this in stride. Besides, we were standing between the Coliseum and the Arch of Titus - what could possibly be so bad?
We caught the bus to the Argentine, then walked to Piperno, only to find it dark even though its website said nothing about being closed on Friday night. Since it is in the Jewish ghetto, I wasn't surprised that it would be closed to observe the sabbath. Only daunted a bit, we struck out for Abruzzi. It too was shut up and dark. That perplexed me. I was pleased to have been able to go directly to each of those places without a map and without any treks the wrong way, but I was disappointed not to be able to introduce my friends to either of these wonderful restaurants. Since the Trevi is so near, we headed that way in search of a restaurant but couldn't agree on what looked 'not too touristy'.
Sue said that the Pantheon is her favorite place in Rome, so we went there and were treated to first-hand observation of the rain coming in through the oculus followed by a really wonderful sight of birds, probably small gulls, flying over it against the night sky.
Mary was soaked and having the least fun of the three of us. After a quick walk around to pay respects to Victor Emmanuel II and Rafael, we settled on a restaurant in the Piazza della Rotonda and enjoyed a nice light supper. Then it was off to Della Palma for gelato. Much to my surprise and relief, I went three-for-three and found the gelateria without any difficulty. It lived up to billing and the pistachio was just fine, even for something a little too green. Finally, we wended our way to a taxi stand and took a cab back to the college.
The rain had stopped and we settled in for a low-key evening, preparing to leave Rome and begin adventures in Florence. If only we'd known what they'd be...
Happily, we found the store and Mary was able to buy the card. One needs to produce a passport to buy the SIM card. That seemed odd to me, but I suppose technology being what it is, mobile phones can be used to detonate more than phone calls.
After a quick stop at the supermarket (not Di per Di) we returned to the cottage and then explored some of the Irish College amenities, specifically the tennis court. The court also has a couple of basketball backboards and a football (soccer) net. I found one fairly inflated basketball and shot a few hoops.
Sue arrived in a Mercedes around 3. After getting her things into the cottage, the three of us went to L'800 for a quick coffee and then headed down the hill toward the Coliseum. On the way, we stopped at a travel agency to get our train tickets for the next day. Mary was leaving at 7 am; Sue and I booked the 12:45 train.
We caught the bus to the Argentine, then walked to Piperno, only to find it dark even though its website said nothing about being closed on Friday night. Since it is in the Jewish ghetto, I wasn't surprised that it would be closed to observe the sabbath. Only daunted a bit, we struck out for Abruzzi. It too was shut up and dark. That perplexed me. I was pleased to have been able to go directly to each of those places without a map and without any treks the wrong way, but I was disappointed not to be able to introduce my friends to either of these wonderful restaurants. Since the Trevi is so near, we headed that way in search of a restaurant but couldn't agree on what looked 'not too touristy'.
Mary was soaked and having the least fun of the three of us. After a quick walk around to pay respects to Victor Emmanuel II and Rafael, we settled on a restaurant in the Piazza della Rotonda and enjoyed a nice light supper. Then it was off to Della Palma for gelato. Much to my surprise and relief, I went three-for-three and found the gelateria without any difficulty. It lived up to billing and the pistachio was just fine, even for something a little too green. Finally, we wended our way to a taxi stand and took a cab back to the college.
The rain had stopped and we settled in for a low-key evening, preparing to leave Rome and begin adventures in Florence. If only we'd known what they'd be...
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Playing Host
Kelley and Alison have been great, answering questions, offering suggestions and directions. I took them a box of chocolates a couple of days ago, only to find that Alison has sworn off for Lent. Oh well, she’s halfway there anyway!
Tomorrow, Sue’s friend, Mary, arrives around 8; Sue gets here mid-afternoon. I moved my stuff to the cottage this morning and Giovanna assured me she'll bring cherry jam.
We’ll enjoy the cottage a lot more than the iconic marble convent. Let’s face it, nuns we’re not.
I had some ambition to make it out to St Paul’s today, but the ambition evaporated in the rain, As much as I’d like to go the Vatican museum and dome, I’m feeling like I “should” go rather than really wanting to go. If I had another week, I’m sure I’d make it, but just “be-ing” is much more appealing.
Kelley said Id be more than welcome to come here again, and I’ve started thinking that I may book the cottage for a month next spring.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Viva Papa
I left the Irish College around 9 and was in the auditorium by 10. There wasn't much waiting, probably because there are only 3000 people admitted to the audience and we went through security on the opposite side of the piazza from where people enter the Basilica and museums. Lots of people are already in the auditorium as I arrive and the Swiss guards wave me on past one door after the next. I end up ahead of a divider, in the smaller section of seats nearest the stage. Despite their famously colored uniforms, the Swiss guards didn't seem to notice that I had a yellow ticket, not a brown one. I certainly didn't mind being closer to the stage.
Much like my first time in this room, I see loads of pilgrims who are very excited to be here. I'm excited too. The pope is a big deal, even for those of us who aren't Roman Catholic. He is a major figure who wields considerable influence, if not power, around the world. And I think he's met Bono, so that's already a cool factor in his favor.
There are red-trimmed clerics on the stage along side the Swiss guards. The most noticeable difference from my previous visit is presence of very high-tech screens and speakers along the sides of the stage. Paul VI was carried in down the center aisle. Benedict had the good sense to walk in under his own steam from stage right. There was, of course, a huge fanfare preceding his entrance and wild applause following it. Clerics read announcements in various languages prior to the pope's remarks. He read a short essay on Saint Francis of Assisi and St Bonaventure in those same languages, then each cleric returned to the microphone to welcome groups in attendance.
When they were mentioned, nuns waved, a youth group of about 200 from Spain cheered, a boy's choir sang beautifully, and in the most unexpected display, about 30 members of a string ensemble played the William Tell Overture. It drew the biggest applause of the day!
When it was all over, about noon, most of the 3000 people headed for the doors, even though Benedict was still on the stage. I used the time to make my way closer and tried to get some better photos. I heard American English and saw a priest trying to take a picture of himself with the pope in the background, so I volunteered to help. That's how I met Fr Jayson, who’s on sabbatical from his parish in California. We chatted a bit and I mentioned the reputation of the carbonara and tiramisu at Abruzzi, and we agreed to meet there at 8 pm. The activity on the stage included Benedict blessing some clergy, signing a document for a young man in a white cassock, and then blessing two couples, still in their wedding attire, who had been married that morning and had come straight to the Vatican for this purpose. I can only imagine how excited they were to have the pope bless them on their wedding day.
It was cloudy, so after wandering around the piazza just a little, I went back to the Irish College to check in about moving to the cottage. As I passed through the main hall, I saw Msgr Liam and asked if he’d had a chance to remember our neighbor’s baby, also named Liam, in his prayers at Mass. Liam’s parents, Connor and Caroline, are Irish by descent and Catholic by practice, so I thought it would be meaningful to them to have their son remembered in a Mass said by a real Irish priest. Msgr Bergin said he had done so and stopped to write out a card for me to take home to Connor and Caroline.
I went back to the convent and took a nap. At 6:45, I realized that there was a set of keys on the table and one hanging in my door. I’d picked up Liam’s keys by mistake as we chatted. I imagined he must have been searching, not able to lock his office, get into his car, etc - but reception was closed and I didn’t know where to look for him. So, I took the keys to his table in the refectory. As I left, I saw him in the opposite colonnade and made my way there to confess. No worries, he said, “I do that sort of thing all the time myself and I’d never has suspected you!” - plus, he has another set of keys.
I arrived at Abruzzi just after 8 and Jayson was already there. We had a nice meal; the carbonara was very good, but the tiramisu was outstanding!! The were lots of priests there, including a rather round fellow who had led a canon law seminar that Jayson attended a few days before. Jayson allowed as if this guy eats at Abruzzi, it must be good! During dinner, we talked a lot about the Church, especially about how churches have been responsible for alienating and disillusioning so many people looking for ways to find, deepen, and express their faith.
After we'd eaten, we decided to walk over to the Trevi fountain since I had yet to toss my coin this visit. We went up a short hill in front of Abruzzi, crossed a parking lot and found ourselves at the front door to the Greg. The Pontifical Gregorian University is one of three pontifical institutes. It's home to about 1600 students, most of whom are priests working in canon law. The other two member schools in the consortium are the Pontifical Biblical Institute and the Pontifical Oriental Institute.
After happening upon the Greg and taking our pictures there, we walked to the fountain, where I pitched my penny (10 cents, actually) and then we went our separate ways, promising to keep in touch. I ended up at the Argentine again and took the night bus home.
It was a full day, a good day. I saw the Pope, made a friend, had a great dinner, and hedged my bet that I'd be back in Rome again. It was my third consecutive day in Vatican City. I still haven’t gotten to the museum or into the dome - and I don't mind at all.
Much like my first time in this room, I see loads of pilgrims who are very excited to be here. I'm excited too. The pope is a big deal, even for those of us who aren't Roman Catholic. He is a major figure who wields considerable influence, if not power, around the world. And I think he's met Bono, so that's already a cool factor in his favor.
There are red-trimmed clerics on the stage along side the Swiss guards. The most noticeable difference from my previous visit is presence of very high-tech screens and speakers along the sides of the stage. Paul VI was carried in down the center aisle. Benedict had the good sense to walk in under his own steam from stage right. There was, of course, a huge fanfare preceding his entrance and wild applause following it. Clerics read announcements in various languages prior to the pope's remarks. He read a short essay on Saint Francis of Assisi and St Bonaventure in those same languages, then each cleric returned to the microphone to welcome groups in attendance.
When they were mentioned, nuns waved, a youth group of about 200 from Spain cheered, a boy's choir sang beautifully, and in the most unexpected display, about 30 members of a string ensemble played the William Tell Overture. It drew the biggest applause of the day!
When it was all over, about noon, most of the 3000 people headed for the doors, even though Benedict was still on the stage. I used the time to make my way closer and tried to get some better photos. I heard American English and saw a priest trying to take a picture of himself with the pope in the background, so I volunteered to help. That's how I met Fr Jayson, who’s on sabbatical from his parish in California. We chatted a bit and I mentioned the reputation of the carbonara and tiramisu at Abruzzi, and we agreed to meet there at 8 pm. The activity on the stage included Benedict blessing some clergy, signing a document for a young man in a white cassock, and then blessing two couples, still in their wedding attire, who had been married that morning and had come straight to the Vatican for this purpose. I can only imagine how excited they were to have the pope bless them on their wedding day.
It was cloudy, so after wandering around the piazza just a little, I went back to the Irish College to check in about moving to the cottage. As I passed through the main hall, I saw Msgr Liam and asked if he’d had a chance to remember our neighbor’s baby, also named Liam, in his prayers at Mass. Liam’s parents, Connor and Caroline, are Irish by descent and Catholic by practice, so I thought it would be meaningful to them to have their son remembered in a Mass said by a real Irish priest. Msgr Bergin said he had done so and stopped to write out a card for me to take home to Connor and Caroline.
I went back to the convent and took a nap. At 6:45, I realized that there was a set of keys on the table and one hanging in my door. I’d picked up Liam’s keys by mistake as we chatted. I imagined he must have been searching, not able to lock his office, get into his car, etc - but reception was closed and I didn’t know where to look for him. So, I took the keys to his table in the refectory. As I left, I saw him in the opposite colonnade and made my way there to confess. No worries, he said, “I do that sort of thing all the time myself and I’d never has suspected you!” - plus, he has another set of keys.
I arrived at Abruzzi just after 8 and Jayson was already there. We had a nice meal; the carbonara was very good, but the tiramisu was outstanding!! The were lots of priests there, including a rather round fellow who had led a canon law seminar that Jayson attended a few days before. Jayson allowed as if this guy eats at Abruzzi, it must be good! During dinner, we talked a lot about the Church, especially about how churches have been responsible for alienating and disillusioning so many people looking for ways to find, deepen, and express their faith.
After happening upon the Greg and taking our pictures there, we walked to the fountain, where I pitched my penny (10 cents, actually) and then we went our separate ways, promising to keep in touch. I ended up at the Argentine again and took the night bus home.
It was a full day, a good day. I saw the Pope, made a friend, had a great dinner, and hedged my bet that I'd be back in Rome again. It was my third consecutive day in Vatican City. I still haven’t gotten to the museum or into the dome - and I don't mind at all.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Go to the End of the Line
Today I pick up my ticket for tomorrow's papal audience. This will be my second: I attended an audience with Paul VI about a million years ago, I also had the pleasure of seeing John Paul II when he visited New York and spoke at Yankee Stadium. Three popes is not bad for a Protestant, imo.
Kelley and Alison arranged the ticket for me, and explained that it had to be picked up Tuesday, best time being between 3 and 7 pm. No problem.
I still hadn't paid my lodging costs, so I went to the nearby ATM. Before I left home, I made sure to let my bank know I'd be in Italy for a few weeks so my debit and credit cards wouldn't trigger a fraud alert. The ATM offered English, so I slid in the debit card, input the requested numbers, and voila: "This card is not authorized for international withdrawals". For good or ill, the credit card seemed to have no such constraints.
After a light lunch @ L’800, I set myself up in the college library to call home via Skype and to check email. My friend Sue wrote wanted to know if it was OK to invite another friend who was also going to Florence next week and and to say that she was prepping to work with the very big cat at the Kabul zoo. I asked Alison and Kelley if the cottage was available for Friday night, and it looks like it is.
Soon, I set out for Vatican City, on buses 85 and 40, not the infamous 571. Lines were longer today, but still not too bad, so I was waiting at the appropriate set of stairs by 3 pm along with about 30 other people. Three o'clock came and went and eventually, the barrier was pulled back and the group started up the steps toward the Swiss guards. No one, and I mean no one, had given any indication that this was not the right protocol. It seems people are allowed through to the Vatican Prefect's Office one at a time.
One of the Swiss guards summoned an Italian policeman, who insisted that everyone go back down the steps and line up again. OK. Then the policeman insisted that those getting tickets show the letter from the Vatican Prefect's Office showing that tickets were reserved for them. I'd asked Kelley if I needed to take the confirmation letter and she said I didn't. I made it to the front of the line twice and each time, the policeman sent me (and several other people) back to wait for the clerics in garb and others to ascend the staircase first. Finally, I suppose my explanation sounded legitimate enough that he let me by, and at top of the stairs, I had to repeat the whole thing for the Swiss guard. Fortunately, a bit of German seemed to help there. I went to the office, announced my name and was told there was no ticket. No, I don't have the letter. I really wanted to be polite because I'm sure this fellow has seen lots of meltdowns. Could I come tomorrow morning with my letter and get the ticket? Yes. Then I asked about the Irish College - and that triggered an 'aha!' and the ticket was found there, with my name listed under Irish College.
I didn't go back to the Basilica, but I did mail my postcards and watch the crowd bask in the very bright and sunny afternoon in the piazza. Then I went in search of one more gelateria - a place known for serving its gelato on fresh, warm brioche. It was a hike, but I found Gelarmony and chose pistachio, meringue, and chocolate. These were very good and the brioche was an unusual and nice change of pace. I wandered toward San Angelo and watched for buses I could take back to San Giovanni.
Waiting for the bus, I suddenly was aware that my hands were free. They shouldn't have been. I set the envelope with the audience ticket down when I paid for my gelato. A dash back five or six blocks ended happily when the cashier retrieved my envelope, contents intact. The mythical bus 571 zooms past. I re-walked the route to the bus stop and make my way back to the Irish College, its library, and then my room in the convent. Supper is a light fare of, yes, scrambled eggs, bread, and cheese.
Tomorrow's papal audience is at 10:30 and the doors to the auditorium open at 8. I set the alarm on my iPod Touch and hope it works (it did). I probably needn't have bothered with it, since the air conditioner went on and about every 10 minutes through the night. At least I didn't oversleep. Maybe bus 571 was really a dream.
Kelley and Alison arranged the ticket for me, and explained that it had to be picked up Tuesday, best time being between 3 and 7 pm. No problem.
I still hadn't paid my lodging costs, so I went to the nearby ATM. Before I left home, I made sure to let my bank know I'd be in Italy for a few weeks so my debit and credit cards wouldn't trigger a fraud alert. The ATM offered English, so I slid in the debit card, input the requested numbers, and voila: "This card is not authorized for international withdrawals". For good or ill, the credit card seemed to have no such constraints.
After a light lunch @ L’800, I set myself up in the college library to call home via Skype and to check email. My friend Sue wrote wanted to know if it was OK to invite another friend who was also going to Florence next week and and to say that she was prepping to work with the very big cat at the Kabul zoo. I asked Alison and Kelley if the cottage was available for Friday night, and it looks like it is.
One of the Swiss guards summoned an Italian policeman, who insisted that everyone go back down the steps and line up again. OK. Then the policeman insisted that those getting tickets show the letter from the Vatican Prefect's Office showing that tickets were reserved for them. I'd asked Kelley if I needed to take the confirmation letter and she said I didn't. I made it to the front of the line twice and each time, the policeman sent me (and several other people) back to wait for the clerics in garb and others to ascend the staircase first. Finally, I suppose my explanation sounded legitimate enough that he let me by, and at top of the stairs, I had to repeat the whole thing for the Swiss guard. Fortunately, a bit of German seemed to help there. I went to the office, announced my name and was told there was no ticket. No, I don't have the letter. I really wanted to be polite because I'm sure this fellow has seen lots of meltdowns. Could I come tomorrow morning with my letter and get the ticket? Yes. Then I asked about the Irish College - and that triggered an 'aha!' and the ticket was found there, with my name listed under Irish College.
Waiting for the bus, I suddenly was aware that my hands were free. They shouldn't have been. I set the envelope with the audience ticket down when I paid for my gelato. A dash back five or six blocks ended happily when the cashier retrieved my envelope, contents intact. The mythical bus 571 zooms past. I re-walked the route to the bus stop and make my way back to the Irish College, its library, and then my room in the convent. Supper is a light fare of, yes, scrambled eggs, bread, and cheese.
Tomorrow's papal audience is at 10:30 and the doors to the auditorium open at 8. I set the alarm on my iPod Touch and hope it works (it did). I probably needn't have bothered with it, since the air conditioner went on and about every 10 minutes through the night. At least I didn't oversleep. Maybe bus 571 was really a dream.
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Great Gelato Expedition
Fair warning: it was a long day, so this is a long post.
There are gelateria everywhere, which is to say that there are lousy gelateria everywhere. Every tourist spot has a gelato stand on the corner and every convenience store has a gelato sign in the window. So far, I’ve tried two and they have been spectacular failures. Ugh.
“My” gelateria at home, the Gelato Fiasco in Brunswick, Maine, is superb. The owners, Josh and Bruno, created authentic gelato from scratch, no mixes or powders or shortcuts. I know there is wonderful gelato here in Rome - I just have to find it. So today, armed with a list of three gelateria touted to be ‘the best’, I take bus 87 back to the Argentine and begin my quest.
First of all, it’s not easy to find these places unless you have a map. Use Google and write your own directions because even the carabinieri (police) standing two blocks from the address I’ve taken from the shop’s website don’t seem to know where these places are. Maybe the police boycott gelato. Maybe if I asked them where the nearest doughnut shop was…
After three tries, I haven’t found Fiocci Neve (the Snowflake). I followed the map, could see the addresses and found no #51 via del Pantheon. It has to be there, but so far I haven’t located it - maybe it’s the Brigadoon of gelateria in Rome.
I did find, in the same square, a place called Il Gelato San Crispino. This is not near the Trevi fountain (well, ok, everything is near everything, but this is a different ‘branch’). Since the Trevi fountain one is on my list, I figure this may be another happy accident. I order my test flavor: pistachio. It’s dreadful. It’s tasteless and it’s filled with tiny shards of what I assume was pistachio nut. I mean filled: it was the consistency of grainy peanut butter. As I stand there, the gelatero leaves the counter, walks into the cooler and removes a gallon sized plastic container that says “pistacchio”; there’s a long tube attached and he puts the whole thing under the counter in something that looked like a cross between a refrigerator and a paint mixing machine. This is a very bad sign. I take another bite and decide to toss the whole thing in the nearest bin. A woman walks past me on her way into the shop. I contemplate telling her not to bother, but maybe she likes this place, so I leave hoping to find something better.
Not to far away, on the Via della Magddalena, there’s a huge place called Della Parma Roma. I’m suspicious. It’s too big. It’s overflowing with tourists. I check out the case. The gelato looks authentic, but the pistachio is a little too green to reassure me. There had to have been 50 or 60 flavors. They had mousse as well as gelato, soy gelato, and sorbetto. I hear New England voices - two young women who live in Boston, go to school in Maryland, and who assure me that their gelato is delicious. I don’t see anyone throwing their cones or cups in the garbage, so I decide to give it a try. I opt for limoncello, pink grapefruit, and meringue. The limoncello was fine, not great, but very good; the pink grapefruit was tangy but not too acidic and I liked that too. But the meringue…well, the meringue was fabulous. I did not toss it in the bin. I wished I’d gotten a bigger serving, but I realize I have more gelato to find and I don’t want to overdo at the beginning of my quest. For right now, this is the only place that merits a return visit so I can try the pistachio.
Next I went to “the most famous” gelateria in Rome: Giolitti. It’s large, old, features seating both inside and out, serves pastries and has a bar. The gelato case here looked pretty nice too. It was crowded. It was also the least friendly of any gelateria I visited. I opted for a combo of coconut, chocolate, and pistachio. The flavors were fine, chocolate being the best of the three. I sat outside and was joined by a woman and her son on holiday from Amsterdam. They both liked their gelato choices, though the mom wondered how anyone could eat this in the summertime, since it was melting so quickly in about 50 degrees. A drop of chocolate promptly fell onto my white slacks.
Next, I find my way to Gelateria Teatro. Like Piperno, it’s tucked into a tiny enclave. Unlike Piperno, there’s a sign at the end of the road pointing the way and when you get to the door, there is a signboard filled with rave reviews. It’s small. There are perhaps a dozen flavors on offer. I’ve had good and bad by now, so I want to give a fair test and review. I choose pistachio again. It’s good, perfectly good, but again, not great. I can taste pistachio, and thankfully while there are nuts in the gelato, they don’t overwhelm the cream. I like it, but frankly, it’s not a destination gelateria.
I looked in at several other places that didn’t make the tasting cut. I do have to comment on one other place, not too far from Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Metaluna. There’s a lot of gelato in the case.
Some of it is day-glow colored, so I’m disinclined to buy but it’s crowded and I decide to look at all the flavors just for fun. Near the end, there it is: Viagra. I swear. And yes, it’s blue.
After the gelato excursion, I wander around a little and see children coming from school, They’re little ones, about 5 years old, being picked up by parents and grandparents. They're excited and happy to be talking about their day. It's nice and it makes me smile, even more than great gnocchi or gelato.
Just past the school, I see round building. The Pantheon is behind me, so this can only be one place: Castle San Angelo. And it that’s Castle San Angelo, then when I turn left…yes, it’s still there: the Basilica San Pietro.
The sun peeks through the clouds. It’s 4:30 and I’ve been testing gelato since noon, but I can’t walk away when I’m this close. I want to buy Vatican stamps anyway, so after crossing the Ponte Angelo, I turn and walk toward the most famous Christian church in the world.
It’s not the same. The lines for the metal detectors, the shabby but abundant wooden and metal barricades - these are scars on the soul of a great work of art. It’s still a great work of art, of course, but it’s sad to see these stark reminders that sometimes evil overcomes good instead of the other way around.
It’s almost 5 pm and the lines at security are fairly short. Behind me, a couple argues. They, alas, are American. There are big signs showing an umbrella (OK) and a penknife (not OK). The woman's voice goes up: “It didn’t say in the brochure that you couldn’t take a penknife in!” Her husband volunteers to wait outside whiles she goes to the Basilica by herself. I think he was hoping for a respite, but she insisted that she was going to try to get that penknife in. I have no penknife, pass through the metal detectors without a hitch, and opt not to see what happens with Lady Macbeth and her pen knife. But I hope she gets caught.
The climb up the steps to the main entrance is a tangible reminder that you are ascending to a place of high renaissance and high church. I pause at the holy door. The last time I was here, I walked through that door. Paul VI was pope then. Yes, I was very young!
Inside, it’s the same and it’s different. We know this church so well; we see it every Christmas Eve and every Easter Sunday. We see it in celebration and in mourning. It’s really quite a moving thing, to ponder the life of a great church, because it does have a life. This one has lived a long time, been home to artists and penitents, seen the challenges of reformers and held the secrets of political intrigue. I love this place - what it stands for, what it stands against. Its grand scale makes me feel “just human“, and that is extraordinarily wonderful.
I turn toward the Pieta. The first time I visited, I could walk right up and touch this masterpiece by Michelangelo. The second time I was here, the sculpture was cordoned off, perhaps 10-12 feet away. Now it’s behind bullet-proof glass that’s two inches thick and more like 20 feet away. It’s still breathtaking, but it’s separation makes this most personal, most intimate moment in the life of Mary and her son removed and impersonal. It doesn’t help that so many people just want to take a photo and move on to the next ‘famous thing’.
The next famous thing, I suppose, is John XXIII. I looked, of course. I took a couple of photos. Actually, it’s pretty creepy seeing a waxy-white fellow lying there encased in glass. He looks very little like the living pontiff, who was portly and ruddy and jovial. I don’t think they’ve done him any favors. I suppose once he’s a saint, they’ll put a couple more inches of bullet-proof glass around him too. I don’t believe that he’s in the Basilica because he moved up the saintly ladder by being beatified so much as there had to be a great spot for John Paul II and John XXIII was in the great spot. Anyway, I bet that JPII zips past poor old John on the flight to sainthood. There’s still that Vatican II thing.
It’s 5. There’s a Mass. The bells ring. The organ plays - and I mean really plays. It’s wonderful, literally wonder-full, music. It’s majestic and it’s coming from everywhere - well, not really, but it’s big, big music. I feel myself relax.
I watch the Mass for a while. The priests - there are at least four of them - look tiny compared to their background. They’re fine in relation to the altar, though that’s enormous too, but it’s not towering. Since the Mass is in progress, the apse is lighted. That gives me a chance to take some photos without flash and still get good color. I snap away as discreetly as I can. Never mind that I am at least 100 feet from the priests and well behind those worshipping; I still don’t want to be intrusive.
From my spot next to the high altar, I think that this is very familiar to me too, not just because of Christmas and Easter, but because on some level, my job is exactly the same as Benedict’s or any of the priests presiding at this very Mass.
I get some photos of the splendid serpentine pillars, a couple of the inside of the altar dome, and then I realize that Lady Macbeth is nudging in beside me. I don’t know if she has her pen knife or not, but I decide not to take a chance and I move quickly to the rail in front of the altar from which it is impossible to see any of the Petrine artifacts upon which this church is built. Never mind. Maybe he’s down there and maybe he isn’t but he’s got a lot going on up on the main floor.
I take some time to read the words around the top of the sanctuary. They are all the words of Jesus to Peter as they are recorded in the gospels. Of course, they’re in Latin, pre Vatican II.
The last time I was here, I was with my college advisor. I visited him in September, and wrote to him last month that I was coming to Rome. He’s a terrific fellow and I can see him now: black coat and houndstooth fedora, lecturing about who and what and where and when and why and how as our little group of Protestants swims in this vast sea of Roman history and theology. The nexus (Harvard Divinity School word for the day) between the building of this Basilica and the Reformation in Germany can’t be minimized. OK - I won’t go there, but Google “Fugger” some time. And no, it’s not a bad word nor is it a name from a Ben Stiller movie.
The Mass ends, I’m close to the entrance to the Basilica again, gazing at Mary and Jesus from the other side of the building, through a couple of inches of bullet-proof glass. I leave quietly and make my way to the PO where I buy stamps (I didn’t expect to be in Vatican City, so the postcards are in my room) and start for the Irish College, for the first time after dark. I get home pretty easily even though the traffic is maniacal. I like that, actually. It gives the angels something to laugh about.
There are gelateria everywhere, which is to say that there are lousy gelateria everywhere. Every tourist spot has a gelato stand on the corner and every convenience store has a gelato sign in the window. So far, I’ve tried two and they have been spectacular failures. Ugh.
“My” gelateria at home, the Gelato Fiasco in Brunswick, Maine, is superb. The owners, Josh and Bruno, created authentic gelato from scratch, no mixes or powders or shortcuts. I know there is wonderful gelato here in Rome - I just have to find it. So today, armed with a list of three gelateria touted to be ‘the best’, I take bus 87 back to the Argentine and begin my quest.
First of all, it’s not easy to find these places unless you have a map. Use Google and write your own directions because even the carabinieri (police) standing two blocks from the address I’ve taken from the shop’s website don’t seem to know where these places are. Maybe the police boycott gelato. Maybe if I asked them where the nearest doughnut shop was…
After three tries, I haven’t found Fiocci Neve (the Snowflake). I followed the map, could see the addresses and found no #51 via del Pantheon. It has to be there, but so far I haven’t located it - maybe it’s the Brigadoon of gelateria in Rome.
I did find, in the same square, a place called Il Gelato San Crispino. This is not near the Trevi fountain (well, ok, everything is near everything, but this is a different ‘branch’). Since the Trevi fountain one is on my list, I figure this may be another happy accident. I order my test flavor: pistachio. It’s dreadful. It’s tasteless and it’s filled with tiny shards of what I assume was pistachio nut. I mean filled: it was the consistency of grainy peanut butter. As I stand there, the gelatero leaves the counter, walks into the cooler and removes a gallon sized plastic container that says “pistacchio”; there’s a long tube attached and he puts the whole thing under the counter in something that looked like a cross between a refrigerator and a paint mixing machine. This is a very bad sign. I take another bite and decide to toss the whole thing in the nearest bin. A woman walks past me on her way into the shop. I contemplate telling her not to bother, but maybe she likes this place, so I leave hoping to find something better.
Next I went to “the most famous” gelateria in Rome: Giolitti. It’s large, old, features seating both inside and out, serves pastries and has a bar. The gelato case here looked pretty nice too. It was crowded. It was also the least friendly of any gelateria I visited. I opted for a combo of coconut, chocolate, and pistachio. The flavors were fine, chocolate being the best of the three. I sat outside and was joined by a woman and her son on holiday from Amsterdam. They both liked their gelato choices, though the mom wondered how anyone could eat this in the summertime, since it was melting so quickly in about 50 degrees. A drop of chocolate promptly fell onto my white slacks.
Next, I find my way to Gelateria Teatro. Like Piperno, it’s tucked into a tiny enclave. Unlike Piperno, there’s a sign at the end of the road pointing the way and when you get to the door, there is a signboard filled with rave reviews. It’s small. There are perhaps a dozen flavors on offer. I’ve had good and bad by now, so I want to give a fair test and review. I choose pistachio again. It’s good, perfectly good, but again, not great. I can taste pistachio, and thankfully while there are nuts in the gelato, they don’t overwhelm the cream. I like it, but frankly, it’s not a destination gelateria.
I looked in at several other places that didn’t make the tasting cut. I do have to comment on one other place, not too far from Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Metaluna. There’s a lot of gelato in the case.
After the gelato excursion, I wander around a little and see children coming from school, They’re little ones, about 5 years old, being picked up by parents and grandparents. They're excited and happy to be talking about their day. It's nice and it makes me smile, even more than great gnocchi or gelato.
Just past the school, I see round building. The Pantheon is behind me, so this can only be one place: Castle San Angelo. And it that’s Castle San Angelo, then when I turn left…yes, it’s still there: the Basilica San Pietro.
It’s not the same. The lines for the metal detectors, the shabby but abundant wooden and metal barricades - these are scars on the soul of a great work of art. It’s still a great work of art, of course, but it’s sad to see these stark reminders that sometimes evil overcomes good instead of the other way around.
It’s almost 5 pm and the lines at security are fairly short. Behind me, a couple argues. They, alas, are American. There are big signs showing an umbrella (OK) and a penknife (not OK). The woman's voice goes up: “It didn’t say in the brochure that you couldn’t take a penknife in!” Her husband volunteers to wait outside whiles she goes to the Basilica by herself. I think he was hoping for a respite, but she insisted that she was going to try to get that penknife in. I have no penknife, pass through the metal detectors without a hitch, and opt not to see what happens with Lady Macbeth and her pen knife. But I hope she gets caught.
The climb up the steps to the main entrance is a tangible reminder that you are ascending to a place of high renaissance and high church. I pause at the holy door. The last time I was here, I walked through that door. Paul VI was pope then. Yes, I was very young!
I turn toward the Pieta. The first time I visited, I could walk right up and touch this masterpiece by Michelangelo. The second time I was here, the sculpture was cordoned off, perhaps 10-12 feet away. Now it’s behind bullet-proof glass that’s two inches thick and more like 20 feet away. It’s still breathtaking, but it’s separation makes this most personal, most intimate moment in the life of Mary and her son removed and impersonal. It doesn’t help that so many people just want to take a photo and move on to the next ‘famous thing’.
The next famous thing, I suppose, is John XXIII. I looked, of course. I took a couple of photos. Actually, it’s pretty creepy seeing a waxy-white fellow lying there encased in glass. He looks very little like the living pontiff, who was portly and ruddy and jovial. I don’t think they’ve done him any favors. I suppose once he’s a saint, they’ll put a couple more inches of bullet-proof glass around him too. I don’t believe that he’s in the Basilica because he moved up the saintly ladder by being beatified so much as there had to be a great spot for John Paul II and John XXIII was in the great spot. Anyway, I bet that JPII zips past poor old John on the flight to sainthood. There’s still that Vatican II thing.
It’s 5. There’s a Mass. The bells ring. The organ plays - and I mean really plays. It’s wonderful, literally wonder-full, music. It’s majestic and it’s coming from everywhere - well, not really, but it’s big, big music. I feel myself relax.
I watch the Mass for a while. The priests - there are at least four of them - look tiny compared to their background. They’re fine in relation to the altar, though that’s enormous too, but it’s not towering. Since the Mass is in progress, the apse is lighted. That gives me a chance to take some photos without flash and still get good color. I snap away as discreetly as I can. Never mind that I am at least 100 feet from the priests and well behind those worshipping; I still don’t want to be intrusive.
From my spot next to the high altar, I think that this is very familiar to me too, not just because of Christmas and Easter, but because on some level, my job is exactly the same as Benedict’s or any of the priests presiding at this very Mass.
I get some photos of the splendid serpentine pillars, a couple of the inside of the altar dome, and then I realize that Lady Macbeth is nudging in beside me. I don’t know if she has her pen knife or not, but I decide not to take a chance and I move quickly to the rail in front of the altar from which it is impossible to see any of the Petrine artifacts upon which this church is built. Never mind. Maybe he’s down there and maybe he isn’t but he’s got a lot going on up on the main floor.
I take some time to read the words around the top of the sanctuary. They are all the words of Jesus to Peter as they are recorded in the gospels. Of course, they’re in Latin, pre Vatican II.
The last time I was here, I was with my college advisor. I visited him in September, and wrote to him last month that I was coming to Rome. He’s a terrific fellow and I can see him now: black coat and houndstooth fedora, lecturing about who and what and where and when and why and how as our little group of Protestants swims in this vast sea of Roman history and theology. The nexus (Harvard Divinity School word for the day) between the building of this Basilica and the Reformation in Germany can’t be minimized. OK - I won’t go there, but Google “Fugger” some time. And no, it’s not a bad word nor is it a name from a Ben Stiller movie.
The Mass ends, I’m close to the entrance to the Basilica again, gazing at Mary and Jesus from the other side of the building, through a couple of inches of bullet-proof glass. I leave quietly and make my way to the PO where I buy stamps (I didn’t expect to be in Vatican City, so the postcards are in my room) and start for the Irish College, for the first time after dark. I get home pretty easily even though the traffic is maniacal. I like that, actually. It gives the angels something to laugh about.
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