World Travel Guide Online

Episode Fourteen: Rome

The Pope, Confession and a Coin Toss

We are on an overnight train to Rome. My light does not work so I am forced
to neither read nor write. I would use this time to sleep, but they insist
on barging in every half-hour to make sure that we still have the tickets
that we had thirty minutes prior. On the plus side, I find that these seats
are giving me either a sore neck or a sore ass, so I spend my night flopping
around to avoid further spinal injury.

The guy in the compartment with us is from Kansas City. He is a used car
salesman, but not in the obnoxious sort of way. He is very intelligent, has
curly hair and is what I have always thought Bob Greene would be like if I
ever were to meet him. He flew to Europe to see the Grand Prix and then will
fly out of Rome tomorrow. Used car sales must be at an all time high in
Kansas City this year.

When we arrive in Rome two people with backpacks approach us. They tell us
that finding a room is near impossible. They give us the name of a hotel
that only charges ninety thousand Lire a night, roughly eighty American
dollars. We look at each other with the eyes of two people who have come to
terms with the fact that they may be wandering the streets all night. Then a
man approaches us, he says he is with tourist information and flashes a
badge in front of us, which I guess is supposed to make us trust him. I can
imagine flashing a badge around an American airport saying I am with the
Federal Tourist Bureau. People would laugh at me and then beat me up,
probably stealing my badge in the process.

He tells us that a new hostel has opened and is only charging twenty dollars
a night. We follow his directions and we eventually stumble upon it. It is a
decent place, with the air of newness about it, except for the fact that the
toilets do not work. They assure us that they are being taken care of this
afternoon and we decide to trust them. We are directed to a McDonald’s two
blocks down that will cater to our personal needs.

From here, we decide to walk to the Coliseum. It is big, old and highly
impressive. The area surrounding it is filled with colorful people and I
spend a good half an hour recording their antics on film. We go into the
Coliseum and I hook up with the tail end of a tour group. The guide explains
how the area in the center, which seems to be a bunch of little rooms, was
actually underneath the main floor and housed the animals, fighters or those
soon to die.

She shows a picture of how the navy was sometimes brought to town and
hundreds of men would be used to hold a giant tarp over the arena, in case
of bad weather. A big part of the Coliseum is closed off and we can only
assume this is because it looks like it may be toppling over sometime soon.
Other parts are open, but so full of Hawaiian-shirt wearing tourists, the
ambiance is somehow diminished. I am thinking that if they let more of the
tourists into the areas that look like they could topple any moment, there
would soon be less tourists to contend with and interesting stories for the
press to cover.

After walking around we sit and try to figure out where to go next.
Actually, Chris figures out where to go next, I am watching the man in the
kilt and bagpipes set up for a lunchtime concert and a group of extremely
attractive teenage girls giggle their way into the monument. Suddenly, we
both look at each other with the same thought in our faces, it is as if we
are sharing the same mind (God forbid). We realize we are sitting in front
of one of Europe’s most famous structures, and forty minutes after our
arrival, it serves as nothing more than a backdrop as we try to plan our
next move. Chris says it is because the mystery of the place is gone. I
think it has something to do with our generation’s inability to concentrate
on one thing for very long, whatever that means.

Next, we see the Forum and Chris notices it is in ruins, pun intended. I am
thinking that this would be a great place to grab a stone to add to my
collection, but by the looks of this place, the slightest movement could
bring it down. I decide I will await a less frightening opportunity. By this
point, besides the cobblestone from Prague, I have added to my collection
rocks from Vienna, Munich, Menton, Nice and Monaco. The bottom of my
backpack rattles when I walk and the extra weight is my punishment.

From here, we head to the Piazza Venezia, which our guidebook refers to as
the centerpiece of Rome. The structure is immense, imposing and quite
frightening, but in an architecturally impressive sort of way. I remember
writing something down about this place and search my pockets with gusto. I
find it, a piece of paper where I have written the name of a church near
here that I need to visit. It is called Santa Maria of Cosmedin, is a few
blocks away, and is home to the Mouth of Truth.

The Mouth of Truth is a large round stone with a face carved into it. The
mouth is a hole that is said to bite the hand off of anyone who lies. I read
once that this is where men would bring their brides-to-be, to make sure
they were really the pure creatures they claimed to be. Of course, I am sure
that once one girl lied and realized she still had her hand, the rest of the
town caught wind of this and the whole scare tactic was out the window. I,
however, found the Mouth of Truth quite impressive and menacing.

Chris takes a picture of me with my hand in it and then another with my hand
tucked into my sleeve and me screaming in horror. I would have made a
terrible bride anyhow. We are amazed that such a famous sight is actually
devoid of tourists, but we speak too soon, as a Korean family makes its way
into the church. We watch in amusement as they take turns putting their
hands into the mouth, screech in fear and then smile for a snapshot.
Watching five of them do this is enough of a good time and we realize we
would rather not stick around and watch the other thirty-seven have their
turns.

We decide to grab a sandwich, which turns out to be expensive and boring. I
order aqua no gas, which up to this point I have always just called water.
It is such a nondescript meal I forget what I have eaten the moment I finish
chewing. The Spanish Steps are next on our list of things to do and we head
in that direction.

I am finding myself having to just stop and stare every time we come to a
red light. The women of Italy are just so many notches above beautiful and
this is definitely a city of fashion. Big, curly, black hair, a pair of
Ferragamo shoes and an Armani suit, driving a moped through the streets of
Rome. It is enough to bring a tear to a young boy’s eye.

I expect to experience the same Spanish Steps that Audrey Hepburn did in
Roman Holiday, but the staircase is devoid of flower merchants, there is no
pot-bellied man offering me gelato and the world has not turned to black and
white. We climb the stairs anyway and find ourselves surrounded by
backpackers, lunch eaters and drifters of all denominations. There is a man
that offers to write my name on a piece of rice for me. Chris is skeptical,
but I look at his work through a microscope and it is legitimate.
Unfortunately, it is a tad expensive and I would not know what to do with a
piece of rice that had my name on it, except lose it or boil and consume it.

We watch people come and go and I tell Chris this would be a great place to
propose to someone. He gives me a worried look and I assure him he is
nowhere near the top of the list of people I would like to propose to. If
only Audrey Hepburn was here, things would be taking a whole different turn,
and if she has some gelato with her, all the better.

We are getting the swing of this Rome thing and decide to hit the Trevi
Fountain, or as our book calls it, the Fountain of Trevi. It is late evening
and there are way too many tourists milling about. Seeing the fountain is
almost impossible and we decide to come back tomorrow, as if the tourists
will all have gone by then. We get back to the hostel as it becomes dark and
are exhausted at having seen centuries of history in one afternoon. My feet
are starting to hurt again and I am near the point of buying new shoes. The
double socks are not helping, the thirteen-dollar Dr. Scholls are hardly
making a difference and I am just miserable. On the plus side, the toilets
are still not fixed.

Our roommates consist of a guy from California, who does not say a word, and
a really nice guy from Wisconsin who is seeing the world on his own. I go
take a shower and find that I am in my first bathroom-shower. I do not know
what the real name for it is, but this thing has a showerhead that faces the
toilet, and when I turn it on, everything gets wet. The bathroom floor is
slanted to the center, which makes the water drain out of the room, but I
cannot help but notice that they should have thought of a better place to
hang the toilet paper. Luckily, wet toilet paper will not be noticed near
this toilet tonight.

The next morning we decide to check out of this love palace. We have come to
the conclusion that being without a toilet is somewhere near sacrilegious.
Chris has decided that it is very rude of a place to expect him to hold his
water. The place we end up has working toilets and is cheaper to boot. Our
nice roommate from Wisconsin shows up not ten minutes later. Apparently,
people from Wisconsin also know the value of a working commode.

We go to the Vatican City and set our sights toward the Sistine Chapel. The
museum that the pope keeps is a spectacle to behold. The collection ranges
from the eleventh century to the present and is displayed magnificently. I
understand now what Christa was saying about the contrast of the homeless
outside this structure and the abundance of riches within.

I decide I have not taken enough pictures and talk Chris into helping me add
to my collection. A row of stone heads, with no eyeballs, is sitting upon a
shelf. As I put my head between them, rolling my eyes, I magically become an
important historical Catholic figure. I growl at the animal statues that
surround the larger Egyptian art pieces, but am afraid he clicked the button
too soon and now it looks like I am kissing a dog. A woman-of-stone is
standing erect and her arm is crooked at a nice angle. Standing next to her,
arm in hers, we look like the ideal couple. Though posed, these photographs
should make for nice conversation someday.

We finally reach the Sistine Chapel and find it to be breathtaking, crowded
and humid. The little room looks to only be able to hold a hundred people,
but at least three hundred have managed to cram their way in. The ceiling
and walls have just been restored and we can see most everything quite
vividly. Near the entrance is the wall containing Michelangelo’s Last
Judgement. It is amazing what one man was able to accomplish in a lifetime.
I am only disappointed that the characters are not all in their original
naked form. When Michelangelo had finished the painting, the church hired
another painter to add bits of cloth to the more nude figures. It amazes me
that any painter would dare to even come near such a masterpiece with a
paintbrush, much less tamper with it.

After weeks of travel, I finally have my first, real disappointment.
Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, is directly above us and no bigger than a
postage stamp. I realize the room is huge and the painting itself is very
large, but when you have seen something so many times during your life, you
somewhat expect it to blow you away. I only wish I had brought a pair of
binoculars. I suppose I can enjoy its beauty up close a little later on,
when I go to the gift shop and look through the post cards.

The number of people is doubling by the minute and a few of the more
boisterous museum workers are yelling for everyone to be quiet. Overhead a
recording plays a repeated message in different languages. It tells us that
this is a sacred place and if we would please keep the noise down to a
whisper. It also asks that we not use flash photography in the chapel, which
is hard to hear over the constant flickering of camera bulbs.

Every few minutes a large man bellows that we all need to keep quiet. At
this point an audible wave of shushing works it way through the room, quiet
prevails for one or two seconds, and then the noise resumes its previous
volume. The man shouts again and the same pattern follows.

He is also telling people not to take flash pictures by yelling “No Flash!”

Something tells me he went to the same university as our breakfast yelling
host in Menton. I think the best way to see this place would be as a guest
of the pope, guaranteeing that you will have time to see it all and that the
devices used to keep you quiet are more, well, quiet. I suppose if you are a
guest of the pope it would also mean you have a fairly good chance at
getting into heaven, or at least having a good word put in for you.

After we leave the chapel, it starts to rain. We hide under the awning of a
restaurant across the street. The waiter looks at us through the doorway and
I feel like I am standing on his personal porch. We decide this is a good a
time as any and go inside to eat. Chris orders lasagna, which he says, is
the best lasagna he has ever had. He adds that at times, he gets the taste
of Chef Boyardee’s Cheese Ravioli, but not in a bad way. I have the
tortellini, which is good enough to bring tears to my eyes, that and the
fact that I burned my mouth on the first bite. Caught up in the moment we
order a red wine. As we are enjoying its wonderful bouquet, we look at the
wine list and decide this is one bottle that will be bringing us that much
closer to poverty.

The lady next to me drops her fork and I instinctively bend over to pick it
up. A noise and movement to my left cause me to pause and I see the waiter
diving for the utensil, new one at the ready. He picks up the old one,
places the new at the side of her plate and gives me a scowl of disapproval.
The rain has stopped and we decide to leave. As we are at the door, the rain
starts again, even stronger than before. The waiter tells us to sit down and
wait it out. Even after the fork incident he is being very nice to us, so we
decide to take him up on his offer and return to our table. He makes it
obvious he does not expect us to order anything, but I see a wonderful
opportunity to partake of a cappuccino.

We have been here a while and the rain continues to fall. It is nice to
spend an afternoon in an Italian café in the center of Rome, but if we do
not get in to see St. Peter’s today, our chance will be lost. We pay our bill
and leave a nice tip, even if we both think he should have suggested a much
cheaper wine. We run across to St. Peter’s and are soaked to the skin.

When we reach the courtyard in front of the church the rain stops. The
courtyard is a huge round area called the Piazza San Pietro. The courtyard
is surrounded by pillars, upon which stand the figures of popes, saints or
someone else of religious importance. As we enter the courtyard we head
towards the center, where stands an obelisk, with a cross on top. The center
is concave, much like the bathroom floor was, and this has caused the
rainwater to gather in a rather deep puddle. We are skirting this puddle
when the rain begins again. Everyone runs to the sides of the courtyard to
escape further wetness. I start to run for cover and then I realize this is
an opportunity I do not want to miss. I stop, turn around, and head back to
the obelisk. I am the only person in the middle of the Piazza San Pietro.
There are few things more important than feeling you have some things
completely to yourself.

We walk into St. Peter’s and the enormity of it scares me. I read once that
this church is big enough to hold at least a hundred regular size churches,
but that does not even begin to describe it. The pillars along the sides are
thick enough to house a family, and the area from the front doors to the
main altar could accommodate a good-size town. The main hall is separated
into three sections and these branch off into various other sections, each
as big as a cathedral.

Before we walk further in, we see a crowd to our right. They are looking at
Michelangelo’s Pieta. The piece itself is behind a glass partition, but we
are close enough to see the detail, including the chiseled signature along
the strap that lies across her bust. I have always been amazed that he
carved this while in his early twenties, but seeing it in person, I am
amazed someone could make anything this perfect at all. Jesus looks at
peace, Mary looks serene, and I am feeling pretty good myself right now.

As we walk further into the church, we notice all the different aspects of
the architecture. The stone gives way to gold and the gold blends into the
marble. Some of the chapels are simple and barren and some look like a
costume jewelry store exploded. As we near the end, there sits the most
magnificent thing of all, the Bronze Canopy. It is a huge, Baroque-looking
thing, which appears both ugly and magnificent. It reaches toward
Michelangelo’s famous dome with its four spiraling pillars, forming a
marvelous structure.

We wander aimlessly and I find myself in a side chapel. There are quite a
few people here, but no one is preaching up ahead, so I decide to see what
they are all waiting for. The signs say that today is confession day, and at
least twenty languages will be able to participate. The one for English
starts in twenty minutes, so I find Chris and tell him I am going to
confession. He thinks it is a tourist thing, to say you went to confession
in The Vatican, but I assure him that I really do think it is about time I
start working on my salvation. Really!

I sit outside the confessional and the little door slides open. Forgive me
father, for I have sinned, and it has been three years since my last
confession. The holy man behind the screen tells me to say what my sins are.
I tell him that I really did not come here to rattle off my sins. I am
hoping I can just talk to him about things. I hear a shuffling inside and
then he opens the little wooden door. He is in his mid-thirties, with light,
curly hair and a Chicago accent. He comes out, sits on the steps and asks me
to join him.

“You want to talk?” he says, “So let’s talk.”

We discuss everything pertaining to religion. He asks me if I have upheld
the commandments and I say that I most likely have done pretty well,
especially if we take into account the ones concerning murder, theft and
adultery. He asked if there were any others I have broken, and I tell him I
am unaware if I have, but he soon lets me know that I have not been an angel
in life.

We talk about going to church, which he considers the most important of all,
and the thing I have done least. I tell him I like to go hiking on Sundays,
and that the trees, mountains and waterfalls make me feel closer to God than
any church ever could. He tells me this is a nice sentiment, but to think of
it as someone who eats alone as opposed to someone who joins the family. The
meal is just as good to each, but when one shares his meals with others, it
is that much richer.

He asks me if I have impure thoughts and I tell him all the time. He says
that this is something that needs to be worked on. I ask him if he is saying
he does not have impure thoughts, to which he smiles and says that it is
hard for everyone, but that we should not give up trying.

We have a wonderful discussion about the world and the entire goings on in
our lives. I ask him how he knew he wanted to be a priest and he said it was
the only thing that he has ever been sure of. What if you fall in love, I
ask, but he says that all things happen for a reason. He says that he lets
God guide him one day at a time. As I leave, he asks me if I am going to
attend church more. I ask if St. Peter’s counts as a month of Sundays, since
it is so big. He says it does not work that way. I tell him I will consider
it and he tells me, with a smile, to enjoy my hikes.

I go downstairs to the crypts and see the tombs of holy men. When I come
back up I see Chris, and we notice that the sun has come out, illuminating
the stain-glass windows. Off in another section a chorus begins to sing a
hymn. I think I am having a near-holy moment and Chris thinks it is a
wonderful soundtrack, making for a better experience. Life, he says, should
always have background music.

After St. Peter’s, we go to the four rivers fountain. Neither of us thinks
much of it. I think we are expecting something more spectacular, then again,
most things would pale after Vatican City. The Pantheon has been around for
over two thousand years, but of course, it is closed on the day we visit.
Chris finds a bit of excitement as he has me take his picture in front of
the massive, bronze doors.

We return to the Trevi Fountain and this time it is less crowded. The
fountain is an oval pool, with Triton standing over it, guiding his two
marine horses. Surrounding this sculpture are white, marble rocks, which look
like they were placed haphazardly, but form an intricate maze of fountains.
The rumor is, if you face away from the fountain and throw a coin over your
shoulder, and it goes in, you will one-day return to Rome. I throw and my
coin splashes in. Chris throws his and we hear no splash. I panic and tell
him to go again to ensure he will return to Rome in the future. He tells me
it is no big deal. He is not that crazy about coming back here anyway.

Off to the right is a man selling gelato and I make a beeline for him.
Suddenly, time becomes sluggish and the world starts to move in slow motion.
Not twenty feet in front of me is the girl with the most beautiful legs I
have ever seen. They are every pantyhose commercial and stocking
advertisement rolled into one. I have to have a picture of those legs. I
wait until she is behind Chris and then I pretend I am taking his picture.
This will be a wonderful snapshot if I can just block out the half of
Chris’s head that made it into the frame.

We have found that the people of Rome are the worst drivers in the world. I
know some can argue the French are bad, or even the Spanish, but no one can
so badly drive a vehicle as well as the Italians do. We are simply trying to
cross the street, but the speed at which the cars come around the corner
makes it impossible. We walk for at least a half-mile before we get to a
spot where we can cross safely or at least with enough time to say a quick
prayer. Two lanes turn into five and then back to two. Stoplights are obeyed
with lax and stop signs are merely suggestions. The little mopeds work their
way around buses and Chris says they look like those little fish that swim
around a shark.

The horn honking is getting on his nerves too. They are honking to signal a
turn, to display anger and to reward a good move. They honk to fend off
others, warn of potholes and to celebrate not being deaf. Chris says the use
of the horn here is an art form and says they must be able to get a college
degree in the fine art of tooting their horns. I am wondering if they will
honk before they crash into me, during or after.

Walking near an intersection that seems to have ten roads merging into it, I
see an interesting sight. It is a cobblestone in the road, sticking up a
good three inches above its neighboring cobblestones, beckoning me to add it
to my collection. Chris keeps a look out as I head into the street. Two feet
from it, he yells that a car is coming, to which I scramble back to the
safety of the sidewalk. Two more attempts and I finally reach the stone. I
grab it with both hands and tug. It is a rather large stone and appears to
be somewhat stuck. He yells again, I dodge, and then resume my efforts. The
second tug moves it a good inch out of its resting place, but now I notice
it does in fact appear to go quite deep into the road. I wonder if these
cobblestones could be many feet long in an attempt to keep them anchored
into the ground. After another dodge and another tug, I give up. I will have
to be satisfied with a stone I have picked up earlier.

On the way back to the hotel, I wonder if, by moving that stone an inch
higher, I have made the street more dangerous for the mopeds. I consider
going back to stomp on it a few times, but then we see a McDonald’s and I
forget what I was thinking about. We stop to eat, not because we like it,
but because we are poor. It is a sad thing, but when you are trying to
stretch your last dollar you tend to only let yourself enjoy one meal that
represents the country you are in, the rest comes from the golden arches.

I am glad we have been walking so much. With the amount of fast food we have
eaten, any other time I would have had a McHeart Attack by now, or at least
a McStroke. Chris notices the McDonald’s next to the Spanish Steps is more
expensive than the one by The Vatican. I wonder if this has something to do
with a secret craving the pope has for Chicken McNuggets. Bless these
nuggets, for they are divine, and bless the barbecue sauce too. They serve
beer but we do not partake. Chris gets a photo in front of the sign and then
we go back to the hotel.

We wake up and prepare for Florence. We have been traveling over a month and
today is the first day I feel that I am truly exhausted. Riding into a new
city everyday, trying to find a place to sleep, carrying all our belongings
on our backs, sharing living quarters with strangers and wearing the same
few clothes. It is becoming monotonous. We have been lucky that we have had
a bed every night (minus the night trains), we have had a shower every
morning (minus the night trains), and we have had enough money to survive.
Oh yeah, and neither of us is dead yet, that has to count for something. Of
course, this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but there is something to
be said for chauffeurs and room service.