The Pope and Rome

We just got back from a long weekend in Rome.  I hadn’t spent more than a day there previously, so the goal was to cover the basics:  the Vatican, Pantheon, Coliseum, and Roman Forum; the best of the Piazzas and Fontanas (del Popolo, di Spagna, Trevi); the view from Pincian Hill; the shops on Via del Corso, etc.  In an unexpected, non-basic twist, we discovered that our hotel was in Chinatown, but no matter.  (Turns out even the espresso in Chinatown Italy is better than in any other country I’ve ever visited.)  It was a leisurely weekend, but adequately filled with sights, beautiful moments, and cute little half bottles of Chianti.

I wasn’t planning to write much about Rome because, really, what is there to say that hasn’t already been said?  In the face of such significance—treading stairs that have literally been worn down 20 degrees by millions of wanderers just like me—I couldn’t help but doubt the consequence of anything I could possibly write.

Then I saw the Pope.  Den Papst.  Papa.

Seeing him had one effect, how I saw him had another.  And that’s what I want to comment on.  But first I’ll explain what happened:  we arrived a bit late to Mass and stood at the edge of the square, awestruck by the crowd and the splendor, debating the alignment of the columns and whether they represented the Trinity.  Eventually, we worked our way to the first barricade.  We must have passed thousands of nuns and school children along the way.  For reasons unknown, the security guard waived us through.  What luck!  We took seats right in front of the basilica, overlooking a sea of people.  But our enthusiasm died after an hour of penance in the hot sun, at which point my husband decided to simply walk past the front lines of security and into St. Peter’s.  He didn’t reappear after a few minutes, so I decided it was safe to follow him in.  (Not my bravest moment.)  Inside, we found ourselves about 20 yards from the Pope himself.  Holy white smoke, the Pope!  Is this normal?  I have no idea.  At one point he walked within ten feet of me.  Can you get so easily close to Barack Obama?  I doubt it.

That’s how it goes in Italy.  (Okay, fine—the Vatican, but you know what I mean.)

All weekend, I watched tourists clamber over and upon historical, veritably crumbling foundations and monuments just so they could do some sort of Herculean pose for their friends.  This is in stark contrast to the MOMA in Manhattan, for example, where I’m pretty sure there’s one security guard per guest, and his mission in life is to ensure the integrity of a Warhol Soup Can.  In Rome, the only person there to prevent my husband from pocketing a rocky chunk of the Coliseum (“because it’s cool”), was me.

You see, Americans love order and rules. We line up single-file behind our tour guide.  We security screen everything.  We keep our kids in car seats basically until they’ve reached puberty.  I can’t tell you how long it took my American sensibilities to adjust to the jostling that comes with boarding an airplane in Europe, where some things are just more… flexible.  Boarding rows 10-20?  That’s just a suggestion, really.  Like our progression to St. Peter’s, development in Europe has been long and iterative, and as steadfastly as people may hold to tradition, they take a more relaxed approach to other affairs.  Obviously it varies by topic and by country (or better yet, by latitude), but I will only say that one of my favorite things about Italy is the fluid, casual, Latin attitude toward living.  Though the Pope is wholly protected by measures unseen (and I don’t just mean God), there’s no [non-religious] rigidity to distract you from the event at hand.

It was a nearly-perfect weekend in Rome.  My exhausted feet and I wish we had taken a friend’s advice and rented Vespas to see Round Two of the sights by night. I wish I hadn’t eaten two whole pizzas and—in one fateful instance—a calzone the size of a football.  I wish my sister had been with me on a jog around the Coliseum.  I wish I’d met up with two friends who also happened to be in Rome at the time.  And finally, I wish—almost—that I had tried the Kung Pao chicken parmesan.

Tagged as: Coliseum, Italy, Pope, Rome, Travel, Vacation