Italy

ROME
By the Lonesome Traveler

Day One and Two – Arriving and Romeing ‘Til I’m All Poped Out

Tuesday: The interminable journey finally ended in the Eternal City. After the inferno of the flight, the purgatory of passing time in airports, and the limbo of lost hours, my first impression of a rapidly darkening but full moonlit Rome was a cross between the heavenly and the not so—with the latter, perhaps, predominating. Was it the Eternal or the Infernal City?

The place bustled, even at 8:00 p.m. when I arrived. The streets appeared to be the venue of an endless modern chariot race with at least twenty scooters leading the charge from every stoplight. Their insistent buzzing made me feel as if I had entered a hive of perpetually angry bees. The taxi finally disgorged me at my four-star, six-night home, the Starhotel Michelangelo; just a block from the Vatican walls. It was as well appointed as any Motel 6, except that the shower stall was designed for someone far more anorexic than I. But later, as I stepped into the street, the dome of St Peter’s filled the sky, and all familiar impressions vanished. I ate at a small local diner, spaghetti, of course, and collapsed—but only after I got back to the hotel.

Wednesday: Ten hours of sleep and a cool, bright blue sky levitated the heavenly side of the picture. Even the scooters took on the aura of whining poodles rather than snarling wolves. About a fourth of the riders are females, most wearing dresses or skirts for the workplace. Speaking of females, many of the pedestrian ones are short and stocky--and not all of them are nuns. Ordinarily, I don’t look down on women, but here I can’t help it—and I’m only 5’ 6.” They appear to be either willowy or rectangular, nothing in between.

About 8:45 I made my way through St. Peter’s Square (actually, it’s more a circle) on my way to the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. A large crowd had gathered, and I learned that the Pope was expected to pour forth his blessing around 10:30. I debated momentarily, but the Chapel won out. The entrance is about a half mile away; and since signs were few, I asked directions of guards and police several times. I arrived at the Museum to find it and the Chapel closed. I found it a little strange that not one of those officials knew (or didn’t bother to say) that perhaps the number one tourist attraction in Rome wasn’t open. Several hundred other visitors were just as confused, as they were milling around like ants whose crumbs have been swept away. I’m getting inklings that there are vast differences between American “know how” and “know when” and Italian “so what.” I suspect I’m going to have to do some attitude adjustments.

I made my way back to St. Peters where a few thousand chairs were set up and found an empty one near the back. Three fourths of the square was still open with a few thousand tourists and pilgrims scattered around. This huge square reminded me somewhat of a drain as it slopes toward the center. Sitting there, I had a vision of a mighty earthquake and us tumbling in our thousands toward the middle and screaming down into the bottomless pit—no doubt a residual echo from my fundamentalist Protestant upbringing reminding me of the once-taught belief that only a thin shell separates the Papacy from the fires of hell.

While waiting, I examined the four-inch square stones that pave the area. In the grooves between them, little tufts of grass were growing, only a few fractions tall, of course, as passing feet constantly pruned them. The poor things were pushing their way through cigarette butts and other tourist detritus, and I was thinking there must be some lesson here—life and death, sacred and profane, artificial and real—but both you and I will be spared all that, as just then the Pope showed up in a Humvee. At least it looked like one—a large, open jeep-like vehicle, which, much to my disappointment, the Pope wasn’t driving. It made a circuit between the barriers, so that most of the crowd got a rather good close up. There seemed to be very little security, a few people with him in the vehicle and a couple trotting alongside. He passed about forty feet away from me, and most of the crowd rushed the barrier—in my dignity I merely climbed my chair. All this time the whole spectacle was being shown on four large portable screens. Cheers, hat waving, people looking stoned out in ecstasy, the Pope’s hand lifting in blessing: I’m not a believer, of course, but still, could I be in his position and take myself seriously? I suppose, to live with myself, I would have to. I didn’t stay for the whole ceremony: long readings and welcomes, mostly in Italian but some in English. Many groups were recognized, especially schools; but about halfway through a delayed but acute case of jet lag hit, and I made my way back to the hotel.

After a long siesta I returned to the Square in the late afternoon and entered the church. In sheer size it is quite stunning; however, it is not an intimate experience. Everything seems to be designed to cut the mere mortal down to size. Outsized statues of popes and saints line the walls, most rather stilted and formalized, a hand usually outstretched in blessing. There is, however, one remarkable exception. In a corner sits one of the world’s treasures, Michelangelo’s early Pieta. Dwarfed by the architecture and the other statues, it nevertheless towers over everything else. With the delicate, beautiful face of an angel and the shoulders of a linebacker, an impossibly young Mary cradles the lifeless but expressive body of Jesus. Somehow, sorrow and loss exude from stone. I found it difficult to tear myself away and went back several times—and will, I’m sure, do so again. How stone can be worked to call forth such beauty and feeling is a mystery for which I can only be grateful. Michelangelo, by the way, excused Mary’s youthful appearance by her sexual purity; he equated virginity with long life and health. He lived to be eighty-nine at a time when such a long life was a rarity, and there is no evidence that he ever had a sexual union—so, who knows?

I took an elevator to the dome and listened for a while to a mass conducted down on the floor with an adult and a children’s choir. I had the dome walkway almost to myself, and I felt like an angel, albeit a dubious one, listening in from on high. St. Peters is magnificent, but on the roof, up close, a certain shabbiness becomes apparent. Away from the pomp and gild of the interior, there is an aura of age and decay. The building seems impossibly old, and perhaps a little tired and out of touch—or maybe that was just me.

A last look at the Pieta, an undistinguished supper at the hotel, then a short walk to a café for a decaf nightcap, a stroll around the Vatican walls, and I was off to bed. Tomorrow, it’s the Chapel, finally.

Day Two -- Ralph and Mike

I slept poorly: too tired, too much coffee, and too long a siesta. Still I was up fairly early, across St. Peter’s and in line for the Sistine Chapel by 8:15, a half hour before the opening. Luckily I was there that early as only a million people were ahead of me rather than a billion. Remarkably, once the line started moving, it took only about twenty minutes to squirt us, like a river of motley-colored mustard, into the Vatican Museum. The Museum is, well, a museum; that is to say it is mostly filled with junk—though I would be happy to own some of the pieces. The star of this trove is the Laocoon, an ancient Greek sculpture dug up in Michelangelo’s time, and which impressed even him. It is quite a piece—agony in stone.

Getting to the Sistine Chapel itself can be a tease as it is necessary to negotiate innumerable rooms, and enough up and down staircases to confuse and ultimately frustrate at least this visitor. Just before the Chapel itself, the way passes through several rooms that were frescoed by Raphael at the same time that Michelangelo was doing the ceiling. Ralph was quite the charmer and a notorious ladies’ man who was liked by everybody but Mike (or Mick). Of course, Mike didn’t seem to care for hardly anybody that much. Ralph died at just thirty-seven—remember Mike’s theory on sexual abstinence and long life? Maybe it only seemed as if he lived to be eighty-nine.

On to the chapel: it would be impossible to be disappointed by it, of course. Well, maybe not: a subsequent pope felt the treatment of the subject matter was more suitable to a bathhouse than to a chapel. Fortunately, he died after only eighteen months in office and before he could do anything rash. I simply could not take it all in. It needs hours of contemplation, preferably spread over a period of days. And I couldn’t shut out the people. I’m always a trifle uneasy in a crowd, and standing (or sitting on benches along the walls) shoulder to shoulder with a constantly shifting mass of bodies brought me perilously close to anxiety. Here is my dream for next time: clear everybody out, give me a motorized recliner, and let me maneuver around to my heart’s content—with an occasional nap not out of the question—or is that too much to ask?

I won’t bore you with any kind of description, but here are a couple of finger facts you may not get any place else. One of the more obscure figures on the ceiling is giving “the fig,” the Roman equivalent of “the finger.” I looked but couldn’t find it; perhaps, binoculars would help. Michelangelo was probably just making a statement, telling the Pope what he thought of the assignment. In our day, God reaching out to touch Adam’s finger has become the icon by which the whole ceiling is recognized. Ironically, Adam’s finger is no longer Michelangelo’s work; a large crack appeared, and a later artist had to replaster and repaint the digit.

After my now usual siesta, I walked down to the Castel Sant’Angelo, a fortress that was the last refuge of popes in trouble. Like most castles it was gloomy and drafty, but from the top there was a magnificent view of most of Rome. After another brief visit to St. Peter’s (there was a crowd around the Pieta, so I left in a sulk), I had dinner and returned to the hotel and turned on the television. The juxtaposition of these two things, ancient Rome and the current news, is beginning to turn me slightly schizophrenic. All day I immerse myself in the past, but when I return to my room and turn on the TV, the here and now suddenly and rudely asserts itself. Having no one to bounce any of this off of, I’m beginning to lose track of when and where I am—and maybe the “who” is slipping a little, too. Even my dreams are becoming a strange mixture of the old and the new.

Day Three -- Panting for the Pantheon

I bought a shuttle ticket today that would allow me to get off and on at a dozen or so of the more popular tourist stops, but a large anti-government demonstration botched that plan, as the buses couldn’t get through. Instead I substituted a guided walking tour through classical Rome, but peeled off after a couple of lectures at Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon. I’m just not cut out for trotting along after someone with an umbrella or a ribbon on a stick who is dispensing misinformation by at least the cupful. For instance, this guide talked about how Ralph and Mick were such good friends when Mick clearly stated in his letters that he though Ralph was out to get his commissions. Of course, Michelangelo thought most people were out to get him. How remarkable is it that such an ugly, ill-tempered, whining, paranoid little runt (I’m exaggerating—some) created more artistic beauty than any other man—it gives one hope. Perhaps if he had occasionally indulged in a little Raphaeling, he would have been a nicer person—but maybe less of an artist.

After my desertion I returned to the Pantheon and the Fountain. Of all the buildings so far, I’m most taken by the Pantheon. Partly it’s the dome and that opening, but mostly it’s a sense of harmony that pervades the place. The Trevi Fountain is beautiful, but I forgot to throw in my coins. I ate pizza at the Navona Piazza (or was it piazza at the Navona Pizza?), and then took a taxi to the hotel and my siesta.

Late evening, and I took a long walk back to my afternoon’s haunts. I got harmonized again at the Pantheon (put the Pieta in there, and I would set up camp), forgot to throw coins in the Fountain for the third time, then set out for the Spanish Steps. These Steps seem to be a happening place where nothing much happens. Among others, Byron and Shelley hung out there, and it is quite the place for romance—at least, so they say: Mick and I wouldn’t know. I was reading about a church in the area where a certain lady saint’s body is buried; which is fine, but the next part got to me: her head is buried in another church about 60 miles away in Siena. I don’t know about you or the topless lady, but that doesn’t seem quite right to me: the heart; a lung or two, maybe; the liver perhaps; or even a big toe—but come on, let me keep my head; I lost it enough in life.
As an aside, the place is called the Spanish Steps because the Spanish embassy used to be there.

Day Four -- Forum or Againstum

Today I saw so many ruins I’m beginning to feel like one, especially my legs. I took in—or made a valiant effort to—the Coliseum, the Palatine Hill, and the Forum. One thing that strikes me about these kinds of sites is the contrast between the ancient ruins and the incredibly cheap (in the most pejorative sense of the word) wares sold in the souvenir stands. Certainly they are no worse than the ones at, say Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco; but to me they strike a much more jarring note. It seems that there should be some things that aren’t part of the general circus—maximus or not. On the other hand, I suppose that everybody needs to make a euro.

The Coliseum is about as familiar a landmark as there is. What most pictures don’t show are the throngs of people and the location in downtown Rome with its constant traffic. The façade of this amazing building is about as imposing as it gets, but I was somewhat surprised at the size of the interior. While not exactly intimate, it does seem a bit cramped. Possibly it’s those towering walls, or maybe our modern gargantuan stadiums have spoiled us. By the way, my guidebook tells me that no Christians were likely thrown to the lions at this venue—the Circus Maximus crowd was more into that kind of thing.

The Palatine Hill is a vast, almost completely ruined palace complex. While there are a few walls, a large sunken garden or amphitheater, and a few restorations, it’s very hard to get a handle on what it all must have looked like. I wouldn’t skip it, but it might be good to lower one’s expectations, at least in terms of grandeur.

Ah, but the Forum! What a magnificent jumble of arches, columns, walls, temples, and assorted other ruins: standing, broken, fallen, leaning—and located in a sloping little valley in the middle of downtown Rome. The only thing that might be said against it is that, perhaps, it looks too much like the set for a Raiders of the Lost Ark type of movie. If it weren’t so real, it would look faux. However, I was in my element; I love ruins, the more so as I get older and come to resemble one. Give me four roofless walls and a dirt or grass floor over almost any intact edifice—the Pantheon excepted.

Later, back at the hotel, I made arrangements for a trip to Naples and Pompeii on Sunday—my last day.

Day Five -- Ashes, Ashes, All Fall Down

I wanted to see something of Italy besides Rome and thought that the one hundred and fifty mile trip to Naples and Pompeii would provide a nice day trip. I certainly hadn’t “done” Rome, but I had made a start; and I had a hankering to see the countryside and another town. Because of transportation logistics and time, I broke down and took a guided tour. We left Rome around 7:30 a.m. Outside the city the terrain at times reminded me of northern California, treeless, rolling hills turning green with springtime. In other places it was more of an eastern U.S. motif with deciduous trees just beginning to leaf out. At other times it was just itself, slightly foreign, but not exotically so.

About halfway to Naples, we passed the Full Monty Casino, Italy’s most notorious gambling establishment where for entertainment strippers disrobe to the accompaniment of detonating bombs—wait, wait; I’m confusing that with Montecassino, the bombed-out Benedictine monastery where robed monks chant and pray—a natural mistake. This large, white complex of buildings is quite a sight on quite a site, sitting on a fortress-like rugged hill with snow-covered mountains in the background. It has been completely rebuilt as it was held by the Germans in WWII and bombed to smithereens by the Allies.

Naples, according to my limited observation, consists entirely of apartment buildings and traffic. Apparently there’s a city ordinance that requires the citizens to have at least one piece of laundry hanging from their balconies at all times—or maybe it’s their flag. The setting is magnificent: Vesuvius looms in the background, and the Mediterranean, encasing the Isle of Capri, sparkles in the foreground. There are steep hills; the city is somewhat like Sausalito, a Californian hillside, bayside town, on steroids. Vesuvius, while a hulking, slightly malevolent presence, is actually a rather ordinary pile of dirt. It resembles a giant carbuncle more than anything else, scabbed over but still unhealed.

We finally rolled into Pompeii around 12:30 and had lunch at a no star restaurant. If this establishment could make it into a guidebook, it would have to be represented by a black hole. I sat with two delightful Japanese ladies, a mother and daughter. They spoke barely passable English, and my Japanese consists of sayonara, but we somehow managed to exchange views on the state of the world, our cultural differences, education, travel, and grandchildren.

Pompeii is a definite “don’t miss it if you’re in the neighborhood, or even if you’re not” kind of place. Six miles from the volcano, it was a trading center of some 20,000 souls. Some two thousand of them were re-souled when Vesuvius blew its cool in August of A.D. 79. Much of the city has been excavated, and the ruins (my kind of town) are well preserved; at least the streets and first floors. Twenty-five feet of ash collapsed the roofs and second stories. If our guide’s site selections were any indication, every other building was either a brothel or a bakery. By the way, how old were you when you learned that a brothel isn’t an establishment that serves light soups to ill people? Luckily, I found out a few weeks before I left; otherwise it might have gotten embarrassing: “Excuse me, Mr. Guide, why did the Pompeiians eat so much bread and zuppa?”

By far the most poignant remains were the plaster casts made from people who were found in the positions where the ash felled them. Some lie in a fetal position, others are sprawled out as if caught running. For me, the most affecting was a small boy huddled, as if in a doorway, head down and arms hugging drawn up knees—resigned, it seems, to his fate and a future of millions of strangers contemplating his last moments. Don’t miss Pompeii: it’s haunted, but in a good way by ordinary people who were going about their daily lives.

Back in Rome after thirteen and a half hours, on an impulse, I hopped off the bus (actually, I disembarked with as much dignity as my stiff legs would allow) at Navona Square and took a farewell walk to the Pantheon and Trevi Fountain—where I finally threw in my coin and made a wish. Back at the hotel I packed for my 3:30 a.m. wake up call and my Roman goodbye.

Home Again

The flight back seemed to take at least a month longer than the one out, but I’m home. Here are a few impressions: The whole trip was a joy, but two things stand out in particular—I’m sure you’ve guessed both. The Pieta, of course: its evocation of sorrow, divine and human, is unsurpassed. Then there is the Pantheon, almost ugly, certainly undistinguished, on the outside, but with an interior possessing a serenity that no other man made structure ever has—at least for me. It borders on the mystical. I can’t analyze it; it started out as a pagan temple and is now a Catholic church. But, once inside, even with the crowds, peace pervades.

So, there you have it. What more could any trip, symbolic or otherwise, hope to provide than some sort of balance between serenity, joy, and sorrow? And to those two places I would add a third: Pompeii. On any kind of journey, it never hurts (too much) to be reminded of our mortality.

The Lonesome Traveler

ROMAN REDUX
By the Lonesome Traveler

SFO Airport

What is this strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation that I always feel at the start of every trip? Perhaps it’s not so odd after all, as every journey, even to the familiar, is also a launch into the unknown. Part of the feeling has to do with the suddenness with which all my trips seem to commence. No matter for how long I’ve planned and how well I’m prepared, the actual moment of leaving always takes me by surprise: how and when did this happen? All of this is by way of introduction to say that I’m on the move once more—Romeing again, to be exact. Now you know what my wish was when I finally threw my coin into the Trevi Fountain in March—but I never thought it would happen so soon. Simply, I didn’t get enough of Rome then, so I’m heading back to scratch the itch, for nine nights this time. This visit, I hope, will be more of a soaking in than my usual go, go, go type of vacation. At least that’s the plan; we’ll see if I can stick to it. So welcome aboard; the nice thing is you can disembark at any time—I’m here for the long haul.
London, Heathrow

I begin this trip with something of a handicap—I am a bit of a traveling freak show. For the previous couple of weeks, I’ve been experiencing some not-so-hot flashes in an eye I injured a few months back. The hole in the retina that was repaired is holding up well, but the eye doc discovered two more. I had laser surgery two days before I left, and my left eye is, quite literally, a bloody socket. If you saw the first Terminator, you may remember the scene where Arnold repairs his eye; that will give you the idea. A livid bruise which now embraces the whole eye further compounds the problem: the doc says it should all clear up in a decade or two. To combat the ugly American look, I wear sunglasses everywhere, which in dark places tends to make me grope. The shades have to fit over my rather large regular glasses, so I have the goggled look of a WWI aviator.
Rome

My hotel is just a few blocks from the Via Veneto where many of the five star hotels are located—it is, however, not one of them. It belongs to that class which is usually called tourist—which can also be spelled c-h-e-a-p. My room is not that bad; it has four walls, a floor, and a ceiling—if it had a door, it would be perfect. Actually, it has AC (which keeps the temp in the low nineties), a TV, a bath with a bidet, a toilet, and a hand held shower in the tub. It is quite small; though there is one place where I can turn around if I’m careful. It’s the only closet I’ve ever seen with its own closet. Well, it’s 11 p.m., nine hours ahead of many of you. I’ve been up about thirty-two hours and traveling for about twenty-four, so I’m going to try for some real sleep instead of the dozes.
Hunger Strike

A slow day as I was getting acclimated: I was up at 7:30 and took a couple of long walks, one in the morn and another in the eve. The immediate area around my hotel is flat, but sooner or later every direction tends downward; maybe I’m on one of Rome’s seven. It’s hard to tell though, as by California standards some of Rome’s hills are more like mounds—or speed bumps.

My a.m. walk was to familiar haunts: the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and Navona Square; they’re still there, left over from March, so maybe Rome is the Eternal City. I taxied back to the hotel and took a nap, which somehow turned into a five-hour siesta—I guess things finally caught up with me.

The evening walk was into new haunts for me around Popolo Square, an upscale shopping area punctuated by churches; which, if they’re open, I always go into. None were spectacular, but they’re all unique and usually have something of interest. About 7:30 sudden exhaustion hit, and I found I had done it again—forgotten to eat that is. I had had a croissant and a bottle of juice in the morning, but nothing after that. I don’t know what it is about travel, but often I don’t get hungry. Without a regular routine to remind me, I either put mealtimes off or just plain forget. For me constant travel would probably be the perfect diet.

Speaking of food, it has occurred to me that the last time around I barely sampled the famous Italian cuisine. I thought that this time I should indulge a little. I made a stab at it Saturday night at a sidewalk café just down the street from my hotel. I had brochette (paper thin beef and parmesan with some kind of vegetable, maybe spinach, all marinated in oil and vinegar). Eaten with dry Italian bread, it is quite good. For the main course I had pasta with salmon—well, the flavor of the sauce was salmon; the fish itself had mostly gone missing. Apparently it just swam through the sauce without unduly lingering. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable; maybe the poor thing was on its way to spawn and couldn’t spare the time. The pasta itself was al dente (in which I’m a firm believer); however, I’m not so sure that it should shatter like glass when impacted by a fork. I usually drink bottled water, which like the meal comes with or without gas; but, at least, you get to choose. Will I eat there again? Probably, it wasn’t that bad.

Tonight, in the middle of my inadvertent hunger strike, I was hustled by a street-corner tout who led me down an alley to another sidewalk café. It turned out to be a serendipitous choice as the food was excellent—a salad, grilled filet mignon, and ice cream and strawberries to die for—which I almost did when I got the bill: forty euros including tip. The euro has moved ahead of the dollar, and European Union countries are certainly no bargain for U.S. tourists. At the end of the meal, the tout tried to entice me to an around-the-corner piano bar; when I refused, I thought he was going to cry—I guess the Italians are an emotional people.

I got back to the hotel at 10:00 p.m., and I’m off to bed to see what my decadent nap did to my already naughty sleeping habits. I’ve developed an extremely sore spot on my right heel, so will see what the morrow brings. I must remember not to step out too boldly into the street, as after a relatively quiet Sunday, Roman traffic will once again be humming.
Foot Joins the Eye Curse

Well, the foot is not doing much better; no blister, but it is quite sore. I did around five or six miles Sunday, which I thought was reasonable, but apparently my feet were of a different opinion. About 8 a.m. I limped down to a Pharmacia and bought some heel pads. Sitting on the curb, I bandaged up, then gimped back to the hotel and a long siesta. I could get used to this routine—very civilized. I understand there is some recent research recommending a daily nap. It would certainly stretch out the work and school day…but would anybody in America take advantage of it?

In the late evening I strolled around my neighborhood, which has the odd shop here and there but is mostly made up of restaurants (does nobody in Rome eat at home?) and banks. I have never seen so many banks, not just in my neighborhood, but everywhere. Take away the churches and banks and Rome would shrink by half. Maybe the city does represent the world and what it aspires to: a complete union of the church and mammon. Depending on your proclivities, there is no lack of places in which to worship.
Baths, Roads, and Such

The following morning the foot was still sore, but time was wasting and I set off around 9:00 a.m. My first stop was at the Baths of Diocletian, by far the most extensive of Rome’s many baths. They covered twenty-seven acres and accommodated 3000 bathers at a time—which, depending on your personality, may be about 2,999 too many. Of course, the baths were also fitness clubs, shopping malls, eating establishments, and social and business centers. According to the cinema I’ve seen, if any Roman plots were hatching, they always started in a steamy atmosphere.

There’s really very little left of this once mighty complex, a few walls and some rooms. A Michelangelo designed church sits where the main bathhouse used to be. The interior is quite vast and grand, retaining, so the guidebook says, much of the flavor of the original. Eight huge pillars (also original) help hold up the center nave. It’s no St. Peters (what is, the Grand Canyon, maybe?), but it is still quite impressive. Down the street is a well-preserved section including the Octagonal Room; it contains a dozen or more statues. One, a nude Aphrodite, teeters between the erotic and the comedic. A little more than life size, she is headless but holds in both hands at shoulder height large tresses of her hair—for all the world as if she were thinking: “Now where in the world am I going to put these darn things?”

In the middle of the room the restorers left a circular glass-covered hole, which is designed to show that the original floor was twenty-eight feet lower than the present one. With typical Italian efficiency the lighting has been arranged so that from any angle the visitor sees only a reflection of the ceiling. The barbarians cut off the aqueducts in the 500’s, and the A.D.’s turned to the B.O.’s. Actually, the ancient Romans never did discover soap (although their emperors were constant living soap operas); they used sticks instead, which seems a little weird to me.

On down the road (by this time you might think that I would be getting to know my way around Rome a bit, but no; outside my Navona Square/Trevi Fountain route—and that gets problematical any time I vary it slightly—I still depend on the map and the kindness of strangers. There are only six streets in all of Rome that run in the same direction as any other; plus there is a law that every street has to change its name within three blocks. Trevi Fountain, which is named for three converging roads—tre vi—actually has five exits and entrances)…now where was I? Oh, heading for the church of Santa Maria Maggorie. The church is old (5th century) but extremely well preserved. It’s as ornate as any—a gold encrusted ceiling among other bric-a-brac—but it has a simple, open feel. The thing that brought me here is the altar, under which is a glass case containing some fragments of Christ’s crib. I’m fascinated, not by these relics themselves, but by the faith—or the complete suspension of reason—that it takes to believe in them. One has only to observe for a few minutes to see that there are people who do believe. Bernini, the “if it ain’t Baroque, then fix it” sculptor, is buried here—more on him tomorrow.

Next, I strolled to the Coliseum but decided to skip another tour of that vast, overcrowded place. I did wander through one of my favorite places, the Forum, then struggled up the Capitoline Hill, sat in the shade, and finally taxied back to the hotel for my now customary siesta.

One of the things that has curtailed my peregrinations somewhat has been the heat. It has hovered around 90 plus degrees each day, plus it’s quite muggy; even at night it only cools down to 70 or so. Tomorrow I’m off to the Villa Borghese and a Bernini fest.

Villa Borghese

There are, if I may say so, some ferociously ugly cars in Europe, none more so than a moving violation of good taste called the Smart—I simply will not comment on the name. Visualize a typical minivan, downsize it by about forty-five per cent, move the rear wheels forward, and then abruptly chop the body off right behind the front side windows. One could get the same effect by enclosing two wheelchairs side-by-side. And yet, they’re everywhere, as ubiquitous as Honda Civics in California; and driven, as far as I can tell, without shame or remorse. Returning to my hotel last night, I got my comeuppance from one. A dirty gray version was parked (well, “situated”; cars in Rome are not parked; they are situated wherever there is some figment of an open space) in the general vicinity of the curb. On the side in large letters, I read my name: _____ _____. There were other words I couldn’t translate—probably a foot and eye curse.

Speaking of my eye, it’s about the same, still as bruised and bloodshot as ever. I tend to forget about it until I see people staring, and then averting their gaze when I make eye contact. This must be the way lepers used to feel. It makes me wish I had a glass eye: I would love to take it out, toss it in the air, catch in my mouth, and pretend to swallow. I prefer the direct approach of the waiter who looked at me, giggled, pointed, and said, “Your wife?” I smiled and gently replied, “No, yours; after I broke off our affair.” No, no, of course, I didn’t say that—I don’t know enough Italian.

As long as I’m harping, let’s get into one of everybody’s favorite subjects: menus. In Rome they can be somewhat approximate. Finding something that is actually being served is more a matter of elimination than of selection. I am waiting to discover a restaurant in which nothing on the menu is actually on the premises—I would pay to eat there.

The foregoing is—don’t ask me how—an introduction to my Borghese Gallery visit. I walked there around 10 a.m.; it’s situated (though not like the cars) in a large park about a half-mile from my hotel. The park is a welcome spot of green in a mostly concrete and stone city. I was expecting to have to make reservations for a day or two ahead; but, much to my surprise, they had an opening in fifteen minutes. Every two hours they let in 360 visitors for a strictly regulated two hour visit. It’s an art museum in the original villa the Borgheses built to house their extensive and expensive collection, so it’s all of a piece. The villa, with its large gardens, is itself a work of art.

The first floor has some paintings but is mostly devoted to sculpture from the ancient Greeks to the early 1800’s. The first thing that really caught my eye was Pauline, Napoleon’s sister who married a Borghese. Half nude (this is her statue, you understand) she half reclines on a divan; and while I can’t claim she’s smirking, she is totally unembarrassed. Canova was the sculptor. When the statue was first made public, it caused something of a scandal. Asked how she could pose is such a way, Pauline replied, “Easy, the room wasn’t cold.” Good answer. This is a work of art that cries out to be touched—no, no, wipe that smirk off your face and elevate your mind: it’s the mattress—no way it’s marble. It’s indented by her body, wrinkled from her weight, and even has a stain at the foot—though I’m not sure that’s intentional. The urge to touch the mattress to see if it’s real is almost irresistible.

Bernini is the real star of the Gallery. He lived throughout most of the 1600’s and redid much of Rome in the Baroque, an ornate style which, depending on your taste, borders on excess. Like Michelangelo and Leonardo he was an all-a-rounder who sculpted, painted, designed, and engineered. Among other projects in Rome and around the world, he designed St. Peter’s Square. Three of his large sculptures were on display in the Gallery: David in the act of slinging the stone at Goliath—you tend to flinch when you first walk in the room and face him; Apollo and Daphne just as he grabs her and just as she starts to turn into a tree (you’ve gotta read the legend); and the Rape of Proserpine, as Pluto carries her off accompanied by his three headed dog Cerberus.

All of these are realistic studies in action, and rather violent action at that; these statues almost move. They’re beautiful and volatile. Still I prefer the restraint that Michelangelo shows; there’s not much character development in these Bernini’s. I had never appreciated the possibilities of stone though, until I examined the works of these two sculptors—the very stones can cry out.

Upstairs it’s mostly paintings: Rubens, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian to drop a few names I know, and there is a host of others I don’t know. My argument with painting in general is that while I could probably tell a Titian from a Turner, I doubt I could tell a Titian from a Raphael unless I already knew the painting—and there’s usually too many of the dang things. I’m thinking that museums should probably insist that anyone but art experts look at two or three paintings for an hour or so each and then go home—maybe then people would have some idea of what they had seen.
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Tomorrow I plan to say “hello” to Moses.

(continued)

ROMAN REDUX: Part Two
By the Lonesome Traveler

Mad Moses

I think I’m museumed out for this trip, but more on that later. I arose (well, not all at once, more in stages) at 7 a.m., agonized over my wardrobe choices for the day (one and a half possibilities), left, careened down the street bouncing off walls, situated cars, and old ladies who are always out at that time of day probably hoping to avoid people like me, crawled into a bar (coffee type), and had a cuppa and a roll. Thus fortified, I sauntered on down the street, no longer leaving a trail of old ladies writhing on the sidewalk and hurling epithets, and started looking for the hotel in front of which the bus I was waiting for to take me where I was going was supposed to stop, if and when it would deign to come (Yes I know that sentence needs fixing, but I’m not going back there alone; I might never return). This hotel turned out to be so exclusive that its name was affixed to a building three doors down, but a street sweeper finally pointed it out to me, using reverential tones and gestures that are usually reserved for cathedrals and football stadiums. Where am I going with all this? Oh, the bus. This was one of those hop-on-hop-off buses that make stops around the city, completing the circuit every two hours.

My first disembarkation was the Coliseum, but my destination was a ten-minute walk away. I was headed to the Peter in Chains church, built to house the shackles that Peter wore while a prisoner in Rome. Actually there are two sets of chains, one from Rome and the other from the time the angel set Peter free in Jerusalem. They are arranged, quite artistically, in a glass case in front of the altar. I was a little nonplussed by the “Made in Taiwan” imprint on one of them—just kidding. I forget the original chain of circumstances that made them both end up in Rome.

However, it was Mike, not Pete, who brought me here. The church, plain and unprepossessing, also houses the rather meager (with one magnificent exception) remnants of what was to have been Michelangelo’s crowning sculptural work, the tomb of Pope Julius II. Julius, just as forceful a character as Michelangelo, commissioned the work early in M’s career. Over the next thirty years he worked at it sporadically, but never got it anywhere near completion. Little things like the Sistine Chapel ceiling (also commissioned by Julius) kept interfering. After the Pope died, the money ran out, and M. ended up feeling he had wasted many of his best years on the aborted project. He did, however, complete the centerpiece of the tomb, a portrait of Julius as Moses.

I came expecting to be impressed, but I was stunned. Pictures simply don’t prepare one for the power of this work. To begin with it’s huge. Moses is seated, but if he were standing, he would be thirteen feet tall. He sits, the Ten Commandments under his right arm, tugging on his beard with his left hand, and head turned (turning) to the left. His left leg is flexed as if he’s just ready to rise; and, if I may be a little vulgar here, he is quite pissed off. This is the moment he realizes what the Children of Israel are up to with the Golden Calf, and he is not a happy camper. Disbelief and indignation mingle in his expression, and it appears as if the horns on his head are sprouting in his anger. Could you read much of this into the stone if you didn’t know the circumstances? Yes, I think so.

I’m beginning to understand what sets Michelangelo apart from other sculptors. They represent situations, ideas, likenesses; he creates personalities. The longer I looked at the Moses, the more I was drawn into its world. It was the same with the Pieta; somehow these sculptures take you in. I don’t understand how stone can be made to do that. I understand how it can represent someone or something; I have a much harder time understanding how it can be something that is as unique as a person himself.

I made my way to the Capitoline Hill museums, which, after Moses, may have been a mistake. Many of the halls and rooms of these two buildings are filled, almost to overflowing, with busts and statues, mostly Roman copies of Greek works. A few stand out: the Dying Gaul, a nude warrior with a broken sword, reclining on an arm that can barely support him; Venus, surprised at her bath and almost covering herself; the little domed room she is in sets her off quite nicely; and in bronze a small boy, concentrating on picking a thorn out of his foot—there’s a marble copy of this in the Borghese. The 5th century B.C. she wolf that represents Rome is here; a suckling Romulus and Remus were added during the Renaissance. There are several fragments of a huge bronze Constantine which had me smiling, while at the same time its sheer size is impressive. The head is about five feet from top to chin; the face is mostly intact but the pate is missing. The hand, in huge proportion, has lost most of the fingers; it once held a nearby globe, which is mostly whole. Were I Constantine, I might wish that the whole thing had disappeared; it is slightly ridiculous—though maybe it’s better to be remembered in gargantuan pieces than not at all.

I had planned to take in the Jewish Ghetto next, but it was hot, and I was tired. Instead I took the bus to St. Peters, irresistibly drawn by the Pieta. Despite the crowds (much greater than in March) and the almost constant barrage of flash cameras, the statue, as usual, transfixed me, and I actually felt sad at saying what was probably a final goodbye. Wandering around in the church, I spotted a small door leading to the crypt and Peter’s tomb, which I had missed the last time around.

Oh, a note on Moses’ horns: during the middle ages the Hebrew word for “halo” was mistranslated as “horns.” By M’s time they had it all straightened out, but he liked the effect they added to Moses’ ire. Under the circumstances they certainly beat a halo; that would have slipped all the way down to his ankles.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones

There’s a small nondescript church on the Via Veneto that I had been passing every day without noticing its existence. As it turned out, I almost missed one of the oddest of all the strange sights of Rome. The church belongs to the Cappuccin Order. When the monks died, they were buried in soil brought over from Jerusalem. After enough years had passed, and there was nothing left but skeletons; they were exhumed, and their bones were arranged in artistic, abstract patterns on the walls and ceilings of several rooms in the crypt. This practice went on for about 350 years from the 1500 to the 1800’s, so about 4000 monks contributed to this art project—that is a lot of bones. The effect is…exceeding strange. It’s not all that ghoulish—unless one thinks too much about what he is seeing. Thousands of skulls and larger bones are piled along the walls forming alcoves and niches where intact skeletons, clothed in brown Cappuccin robes, are standing or lying. The profusion of smaller bones are plastered on the walls and ceilings, including the corridor one walks down, in a variety of graceful patterns, mostly grouped with bones of their own kind. It is the clothed figures that make the scene truly macabre; without them the visitor can almost forget the reality. Some of these figures are partly mummified, and they grin as if in on some kind of ghastly joke. The floors are free of bones and are apparently used for normal internments.

There’s a religious purpose being served here; somehow it’s all supposed to show how the gospel has swallowed up death in victory—I’m not sure, though, how well the idea works. Death appears to have the upper hand. In one room a complete skeleton plastered onto the ceiling is holding a long handled scythe made of bones. This, the grim reaper, is the most dominant figure in the crypt.

The rest of the afternoon, I took it easy. I ate Chinese down around the Pantheon; strolled, an anonymous shadow among the crowds; ate a gelato; then drifted back to the hotel for a nightcap of a glass of water; and so to bed.

Oh, I almost forgot: tomorrow I’m going to Florence.

The David

Why Florence? Well, the first girl I ever kissed was Florence, Florence M___. Her family had come from Tuscany, and she was named after the capital city of that province. The other kids sometimes referred to her as “Minnie Mouse” because her upper front teeth protruded slightly more than was absolutely necessary—unless stripping the bark from a tree limb was somehow involved--but I thought she was mighty cute anyway, especially when she nibbled cheese. Actually, her condition was not nearly as pronounced as her mother’s; my dad, a man not ordinarily given to hyperbole, once remarked that she could probably kiss her husband goodbye after he left the house.

I diligently practiced on my forearm until the skin puckered, and my mother threatened to take me to the doctor to see if I had leprosy; but when the moment arrived, I still was not accomplished at the fine art of osculation. One problem was that because of those teeth she lacked a chin belay point below her lips; a second was that since I was in constant danger of hyperventilating during the act itself, I couldn’t keep any suction going. Because of these unresolved issues, I kept slipping off the target and down into a void past that nonexistent chin safety net. I didn’t realize until much later in my career that since I kept ending up in the vicinity of her neck anyway, it could have been an option.

She and her family moved shortly after the ordeal (I don’t think there was a connection), and I never saw her again. But I’ve always worried that she might have become a nun out of disappointment. Later I heard that the family had returned to Italy. Perhaps she had gone to her namesake city and ended up in a convent. Since I would be in the neighborhood, I would check it out; and if she were there, I would…but, no; it would never work: I’m too out of practice; my forearm, even shaved, is no longer as inviting as it once was; I probably could not avoid the void; and with those high collars that many of the older nuns wear, the neck still might not be an option. Best to let things be: I will go to Florence and see Michelangelo’s David instead.

Florence lies about a 130 miles north of Rome. This trip, along with the one to Pompeii in March, has allowed me to see a pretty good swath of central Italy. Although I’m not crazy about them, I took a guided tour. I’m not yet brave enough to just hop on a train and head for parts unknown. Perhaps if I had longer, but with only one day I’m afraid I would waste too much time just finding my way around.

There’s something about the Italian countryside that reminds me of America, but I’m never sure just which region. Of course, as soon as a town, village or even a single structure appears, semblances to the United States vanish. The motorway follows the valley of the Arno River; and many of the towns, founded by those mysterious Etruscans, are walled and perched high on volcanic hills. They cry out for exploration. If I get to Italy again, I want to see more of the countryside and the small villages. There’s lots of agriculture in this region: mostly tobacco, vineyards, and olive groves. There’s little heavy industry; that’s concentrated in the north around Milan. Italy is in the midst of a severe drought; and, according to the guide, must soon make a decision as to whether to use its water for agriculture or electricity and industry.

We arrived in Florence around 11 a.m. and stopped on a hill above the river to get a view of the city. Situated in the valley of the Arno, it is a lovely town of about a half million people. The gothic cathedral of Santa Maria dei Fioro, called the Duomo, dominates the skyline. Our tour proper began at the square of the Santa Croce church where we visited a leather factory; leather and gold works are two of the town’s main industries. Having no wish to get leathered up in the heat, I slipped out and visited the church. Buried there, among others, are Michelangelo, Dante, Galileo, Jones, Machiavelli, and Rossini—of Lone Ranger fame. Actually, there’s only a memorial to Dante: having assigned too many of his political enemies to the lower circles of hell in the Divine Comedy, he was banished from his home city.

After one of those ho-hum tour lunches (I ate with a lady from the United Arab Emirates who spoke little English and a lady from Alabama who spoke none but drawled it pretty well), we took a three-hour walking tour of the city. Florence is very compact compared to Rome; but, of course, we only got a smattering of what it has to offer: Michelangelo’s house, the home of the Medici, the beautiful bronze doors of the Baptistery (Mike said they were fit to be the gates of Paradise), and the Duomo with its modern, almost garish, façade and its plain, undistinguished interior. And finally, the culmination for me: the Academia, the museum housing the David. I’ve already carried on enough about M’s sculpture, so I’ll keep this to a minimum. Once again, even though I was expecting a lot, the David was so much more overwhelming and beautiful than I had anticipated: it’s a rare treat when reality outruns hype.

There are some unfinished pieces in this museum that were to have been a part of Julius’ tomb. These figures seem to be crying out to be released from the stone or struggling to realize their destiny. One can see how M. worked from front to back, the figure slowly emerging as if already fully formed within the marble—but, of course, that’s not really true. What makes the process even more remarkable is that the full creation existed, not in the stone, but in M.’s mind; and, perhaps, somehow, in his hands. His chisel marks are still visible, which gives these sculptures an immediacy the finished pieces don’t have.

There is another Pieta in the Academia (Michelangelo did four altogether). He sculpted the one in St. Peters in his early twenties, the one here when he was in his seventies (he was still chipping away at 87, a year before he died). This Pieta is much rougher and more modern looking, bordering on the abstract. In it two figures support the body of Christ as he is taken from the cross. They strain as if supporting an intolerable weight, as if his body does contain that which killed him, the sins of the whole world. This statue reveals only the essence of sorrow and loss; but that is enough. In its way it is as moving as his earlier one.

And then, back to Rome, dinner, and bed to complete a fourteen-hour day.

Farewell, Rome

My last day, and I’m not planning to do anything much, just a farewell stroll around Trevi Fountain and the Pantheon this evening. Currently, I’m sitting at a sidewalk café and writing up my journal…well, Rome still has its surprises: as I sit here scribbling, clip-clopping up the Via Veneto (one of the main thoroughfares of the city) is a two-wheeled horse drawn cart containing hay bales.

Later…

The Lonesome Traveler

Postscript:

As you have no doubt noticed, as an art novice I have been struggling to put down some coherent thoughts about Michelangelo’s sculpture and why it has affected me so deeply. By my own standards I’ve done a poor job. I’m going to take out my verbal chisel and have one more whack at it; so if you have had enough, now is the time to bail out and go do something practical that will make the world a better place.

While all of Michelangelo’s art that I have written about has a context, it seems to me that most of it is superfluous. In other words if you came upon these works without any knowledge of the circumstances, the history, or their creator, you would be little handicapped, if at all, in your understanding or appreciation. That is because Michelangelo has somehow managed to strip away all but the essence of a fundamental human experience, while at the same time keeping its representational form. To me that is an amazing and an almost unique accomplishment. I think much of abstract art attempts to get at the essence of things also, but in doing so it has to dispense with most of the representational. Without the representational, we move away from the feeling, emotional, human side into a more intellectual, abstract arena. We’re still connected with the human but not in such a visceral, immediate way.

When I look at Bernini’s realistically idealized works (is that too much of a contradiction?), I realize that without the background, the story, I lose too much information. I admire the skill and beauty, but without the context, there is a lack of meaning. But even when I know the story, these figures turn out to be mostly stock. Any feelings attached to these works are of a generic rather than an individual nature, and I share them only in an abstract way. Somehow these works miss the essence of a universal human experience that is at the same time individually unique. They insist on standing for something, and that limits the range and power of their appeal. They don’t exist as pure entities in their own right.

When I stand before the Pieta (and that’s important; the experience doesn’t come through nearly as clearly in pictures), I see the representational Mary and Jesus; that fact matters to a degree, but not a very large one (if you know the context, you can’t entirely divorce yourself from it). I see the forms, and that seeing connects me to the everyday human side, but what I also acknowledge is the universal--yet at the same time—uniquely personal, human experience of grief. Sorrow, loss, denial, resignation, and finally acceptance are somehow contained in the stone, the whole gamut of human grief. How is that possible? How can a piece of stone so purely distill an emotional experience? In my own experience of grief, the feelings are confused, fragmented, and transitory; but in this cold, dead stone I feel permanence, order, purity, and, in the end, serenity and acceptance. And all of this exists in its own self-contained world; the only thing it needs to reference is something inside of me. It is in this self-containment, and my participation in it, that the beauty, the wonder, and the genius of Michelangelo resides.

I do love words, but sometimes they are so inadequate—or maybe it’s the thinking that goes amiss. I guess I shouldn’t feel too bad; there are plenty of other things I can’t put into words either: love, obviously; my daughters’ births; my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon; evening light; the light and longing in another person’s eyes; but why go on? It would be a dull, dull world if we could explain it all.

TLT