Rome and the Pope, and a City on the Sea

Rome is nothing if not dense. Though in terms of area it’s significantly smaller than many of the world’s other major cities–it’s possible to walk across the city proper in little over an hour, and thirty minutes on the train brings you out into the fields and farmland outside the city–there are things to see and do on every corner. Fountains, parks, art exhibitions, and of course massive churches are all across the city.

I went to the Vatican as planned and tagged behind a tour group before getting bored and heading off on my own. Standing in front of me were a couple I thought I recognized, who I hadn’t spoken to at the time, from a bus back in Corsica. Turns out that at the same time travel teaches you how big the world is, it teaches you just how small it is at the same time. Their names were Olly and Kaitlin, from the U.K. and Canada respectively, and they had in fact been sitting a few seats in front of me on the bus ride from Ajaccio to Bonifacio a couple of weeks ago.

We walked around St. Peter’s Basilica for a while, noting the fact that in the past the Catholic church seems to have had no lack for funding. The interior of the Basilica is cavernous, overawing, full of statues and expansive murals of Biblical stories. The tourists move along in a vast hushed crowd, counterclockwise around the interior, before emerging, blinking, back into the sunlight. Beneath the Basilica is the crypt, where several popes are buried, as well as several other important church personages. The most important, of course, is St. Peter himself–Christ had said, “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.” The Catholics have taken this both as a figurative foundation for their theology and for papal authority, and also quite literally. Father Withoos informed me that, after Peter was crucified, he was buried in an Etruscan cemetery on what was then Vatican hill, one of the seven hills of Rome. This became, naturally, a point of pilgrimage for early Christians, and a shrine was soon built on the site. The current basilica was built on the assumption that this was all true–the original cemetery was buried under the foundations of the successive shrines and churches that had been built on the spot.

During World War II, however, there were some doubts–after all, no one had ever seen the grave. So, starting under Mussolini’s dictatorship, the church undertook a secret investigation, excavating beneath the church even as masses were given to an unsuspecting following in the basilica above. Finally they found what seemed to be the original burial place–an altar covered with inscriptions dating back from the first few centuries after Christ, and beneath it, a burial chamber.

The only problem was, chemical testing of the soil revealed that no one had ever actually been buried there. The tomb was empty, and had always been empty. This, clearly, was a problem. Meanwhile, the altar itself had been cut open as the translation of the inscriptions were taking place, and inside it were found several human bones, wrapped in purple cloth. As purple cloth was only worn by Roman emperors, it was assumed that one of the later emperors had desired to be buried near where he thought the saint lay. One of the archaeologists on the project filed the bones away in storage for later examination, and the translation and analysis of the inscriptions continued for the next fifteen years.

Finally, when they’d translated nearly everything else, they came to one of the last inscriptions, older than the rest. And there it was: Here Lies Peter. Fortunately, the archaeologist was still around, and remembered the bones she’d stored away, and they were quickly put back in their place. The gist of the story is that all the forensic evidence points to crypt beneath St. Peter’s as the actual burial place of Peter the Apostle. Father Withoos says this is the best thing to see in Rome, but understandably, there’s quite a waiting list and I wasn’t able to make it.

And, of course, no trip to the Vatican is complete without a visit to the Sistine Chapel. Olly, Kaitlin and I headed into the Vatican Museum to take a look. We passed the Vatican post office, which is the most efficient in Europe after those in Switzerland–quite a feet, considering that the Vatican is right in the middle of Italy, which is, let us say, not the most efficient, or likely even the second least. The path to the Sistine Chapel runs through the old papal chambers, covered in priceless paintings by Raphael and others by the great Italian painters. High ceilings, marble floors–really rather posh, especially considering the rather more simple mode of living preferred by the religion’s founder.

The Sistine Chapel itself tends to take the breath away, especially if, like most people, you’re already familiar with Michaelangelo’s work. Intricate paintings span the whole ceiling, far above the craning necks of the crowd below. Michaelangelo painted it almost entirely by himself, standing on scaffolding and constantly working above his head until the whole series of masterpieces were complete. If there were chiropractors in his day, he must have made thim rich.

I had a pizza afterwards with Olly and Kaitlin and said goodbye, then headed back to the house. The next day was Roman day. I gritted my teeth and booked in with a tour group, which covered the Coliseum, Palatine Hill, and the Roman Forum. It turned out to be quite worth it, as the tour guide knew his topic and tried his best to make us understand what life was like in the days of Rome, down to the details–like how the floor of the Coliseum was made of wood and covered in sand, so that after the games the blood would be easier to clean, or how, in one of the games, twenty elephants and fifty lions were loosed to fight to the death, resulting in a chaos that, by all accounts, entirely entranced the huge audience arrayed on the three tiers of seating. This place, according to the guide at least, has seen the most concentrated number of deaths of any location in the world, with several centuries of almost daily combats, animal against animal, human against animal, and, most popularized, human against human.

Palatine Hill is nearby, with a view over the city. This was the place where, as legend has it, Romulus founded the city of Rome. It’s been popular ever since–at first the neighborhood of Rome’s early powermongers, and then a massive palace complex for the emperor Domitian, the ruins of which still dominate the surrounding landscape. Even Mussolini got a piece of the action–his name’s still inscribed on the building that is now the hills museum. Though now in ruins, the hill is still impressive–carved marble columns, wide brick arches and walls (originally plated in marble, all of which has now been “borrowed” by the Vatican), statues, and bushes of bright red flowers that, when they wilt and fall, durn dark and coat the ground in a carpet of crimson.

I walked down through the Forum, home to a good portion of the intrigues that went on seemingly constantly among the higher circles. Jealousy, adultery, murder, lies–Rome in its day was a bit like a soap opera that ruled the world. Although, it must be said, I have not yet found a case of amnesia that had any significance during the early Roman period.

After heading out, I took a wide circle that took me through most of the northern part of the city, up old roads and down the new ones that are now fronted with the main stores of the big Italian fashion brands, Prada, Gucci, Armani, suits that would cost me more than this trip, shoes for prices that could feed a fair sized family for half a year. Interesting, the lengths we humans go to to try to improve our standing in the eyes of our fellow mortals.

That night I attended a play in the Forum put on by several English-speaking expats in the city, a humorous interpretation of the life of Michaelangelo, quite clever, and generously donated to afterwards. I also had a long talk with Fanika, a Romanian girl who works for the family I’m staying with, and who I met when she was taking care of Isaac and Saffron, the two children. She’d had an interesting life, and from the sounds of things would continue to do so–a trip to Thailand this Christmas, if all goes well. Fanika, best of luck.

For my final day in Rome, I took a bit of a bummeltag, walking with Isaac in the morning up a nearby hill and stopping for some truly excellent frozen yogurt and fruit–locally grown, and rather tastier than the American supermarket variety. Then it was time to say goodbye again, and I got on an overnight train to Venice.

If Rome is a stately emperor, Venice is his mistress. Same sense of Roman respectability, but beautiful, a bit saucy, and with a tad too much makeup. The city is unreal, built barely a meter ab0ve the level of the sea, with canals snaking through it in every possible way. There are no cars inside the city, either–the streets, or “callas” are rarely more than sidewalk width, and the only form of motorized transportation inside the city is by boat. Indeed, some of the big five star hotels have their main entrances on the waterfront rather than the street front, as the wealthier tourists usually take one of the many water taxis directly to their destinations.

The city is also a labyrinth. Perhaps the architects were drinking a bit too much when they planned it, or perhaps there wasn’t much of a plan in the first place. Either way, alleys collide at every possible angle, so dense that even a good map is still difficult to use. The biggest landmarks are the churches, and with their high bell towers it’s sometimes possible to navigate just by the sound–even then, I’ve found myself on more than one occasion making a wide circle around my target because no callas lead toward it, or if they do, end abruptly at the stone steps of a canal.

Still, you can feel the sense of enchantment the city has always had, ever since the wealth it received during its days as the single most powerful city on the Mediterranean allowed the building of the extravagant archictecture still visible everywhere today. You’ll take a calla here and suddenly be out of earshot of the crowded main tourist arteries and find yourself beside a quiet and empty canal, with water so still you can see the reflection of the old stone walls above. Then again, the canal water is filthy, and the smells alternate from warm bakeries to dank seawater, depending on the whim of the breeze.

Glassblowers, too, are everywhere, selling jewelry to the tourists and furniture and decorations to those–quite numerous–of richer blood visiting the city. Gondolas ferry passengers up and down beneath the arching stone bridges, and carpenters work on the exteriors of some of the older buildings from old boats full of scrap wood.

Venice has always been a center of the arts, and that quickly becomes apparent. Vivaldi was born here, and one of the churches is hosting a collection of antique instruments in his honor, from beautiful cellos, to flutes, to some instruments that were designed for specific musical pieces. During Vivaldi’s time, Venice hosted an all-female orchestra–very rare for that era–gleaned from the poor and unfortunate young girls of the city. They were taken out of poverty, housed, and extensively trained to the point of musical excellence. Venice is justifiably proud of its history of care for its less fortunate citizens, with a whole host of public works projects, and, like the orchestra, cases of creating true beauty where others might have been content to simply give a donation.

The churches, too, often feel like art museums. Whereas Rome was more focused on gilding and statuary, the churches of Venice feature whole walls painted by Renaissance artists, some of them quite famous even today. So, while the great churches of Rome feel very Roman–imposing, grand, much increased by the same white marble that originally gave the same feeling to classical Rome–Venezian churches are a bit darker, a bit more chaotic in design, and rich with the colors of murals that span from floor to vaulted ceilings.

It was a long day, and a good one. In the evening I took the train to Vicenza, a half hour’s ride from Venice, where there’s an American army base I have friends at. I met Daniel, a friend of mine from back in Montana, at the train station, and we walked around town for a bit. He pointed out bits of graffiti here and there, anti-American, referring to the tensions between the base and local officials. The base wants to buy up more land, the locals don’t want to give it; conflicts like these are, perhaps, inevitable.

So I spent the night back on American ground, more or less, in the U.S. Army barracks, before waking up at 5:30 when Daniel left for PT. I said my goodbyes and headed back to the train station, and back to Venice, where I’m now sitting, in a cafe I managed to find after a long and circuitous route. This afternoon I head to Trieste, and from there to Rijeka, in Croatia. The plan there is beaches and national parks–as much as I’ve enjoyed both Rome and Venice, I’m l0oking forward to getting back to nature for a bit.