Rome with a friend

As luck would have it, my friend Tracy had made plans to be in Rome at the same time that I would be there. She was coming in to spend the holidays with her brother and his family, and it turned out that we had overlapped for two days. So, we made plans to get together the afternoon that she landed and the next day.

I'd held off on going into any of the ruins in Rome until Tracy got there, thinking it would be fun to explore them together. I wasn't wrong. Tracy, like me, wanted to know the why and how of things, so she and I would poke and prod and work through different scenarios together until we had a working hypothesis on how different aspects of the ruins we came across might have been used. Call me kooky, but damn, that was fun. This also meant that we took a lot longer to go through different areas than the average person and ended up being rushed out of the Palatine Hill and Forums areas. Ah well. An excuse to come back another time.

We wandered aimlessly her first afternoon while I kept her awake to help acclimate her to the new timezone. In all honesty, I'm pretty sure she barely remembers much of that afternoon, but we saw some pretty cool stuff.

We walked around the city, goggling at the numerous spots where ancient ruins just sort of popped up.

We walked the Circus Massimo track, trying to figure out what the center aisle would have been used for and how the seating would have worked.

We went to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier where we got to see the changing of the guard, and then up on the giant monument so she could see the Forum ruins with the domes overlooking them.

The next day, we met up early and headed to the Coliseum. We spent a lot of time trying to work out what was from the various incarnations of the space.

From the amphitheater to a series of stables to a fortress to ruins again, the Coliseum's history is nothing like that of Pompeii, which lay completely untouched for nearly 2000 years. No, the Coliseum was massive and stood in the midst of a living, thriving, ongoing city structure. Abandoned by the Roman dictators of old it may be, but untouched it was not.

We took a break after exploring the amphitheater and went to lunch with her nephews at a market set off by the Tiber. Most of the shops were closed, and those few open held clothing, food, and leather goods. We grabbed lunch, hung out with the boys (they're 17 and 14), then they left and Tracy and I headed back to the ruins of Rome.

Entering Palatine Hill, we found a section that had once been baths. Here, we spent most of our time, trying to work out the different areas, pumps, drains, levels of flooring, etc. In short, we totally geeked out together on how it all would have worked.

We spent so much time here, however, that we ran out of time. During the winter season, things close down early as there is limited sunlight. So, we quickly walked through as much of the area as we could, though we missed most of the space. We headed to the forum, but it, too, had closed. A bit disappointing, but honestly, I really enjoyed the time we spent exploring the baths so I didn't mind it much.

Tracy had offered to take me out to dinner as a belated birthday celebration, but the ruins had been closed way too early to meet up with her niece and nephew for dinner. So, we headed over to a delightful restaurant covered in fairy lights with an outdoor seating area. We were set next to a flaming heater (these were ubiquitous throughout all of Barcelona, Naples, and Rome), and ordered an appetizer and wine.

In true Roman fashion, we dawdled over our wine and food, talking about life at home as well as in Rome. We ordered dessert and coffee, and again, relaxed into the space and time. It was lovely. The wind blew lightly, the lights above us swayed, and in the distance, the walls of the Coliseum kept us company. Magic.

We met up with the kids, and they took us to a lovely Italian restaurant where I got my first real Italian meal that wasn't pizza. The kids had been in Italy for over a year and a half, so they navigated getting the table in Italian, then helped Tracy and me order. We shared a bottle of wine, sampled brilliant pasta, and then wandered to a lovely gelato store where I got a cup of tiramisu.

I walked with Tracy and her niece and nephew back to their apartment, gave her a hug, and set off toward my hostel. Birthday Dinner Take Two had been an absolute delight.

Rome, Oh Rome

I fully admit that Rome's appeal for me came from 1950s romance movies and a desire to see Ancient Roman Ruins. (It's important that those three words are capitalized.) Modern-day Rome was the setting, but my romanticized experiences had written the plot, the music, and the credits. And true to form, expectations drove the story, until reality couldn't conform to expectations. Here, as they say, is where the magic happened.

A couple of friends of mine travel to amazing and distant places on a whim all the time. It's become one of my joys to read their posts on social media as they take us along on their journeys. Recently, one of them wrote a lovely piece about how the difficulties they faced on their trip to Antarctica this month never really affected them because they'd gone on that trip as they did all others: with minimal expectations. "To go" defined the level of their expectations, so anything that happened was supposed to happen. It was part of the adventure.

Most of my life, I've tried to live by that credo. When things go wrong, it's not a bug, it's a feature. It's part of the adventure. It's a grand story to tell later while we're sitting around the kitchen table drinking wine and becoming family. One of my favorite quotes is: Life is what happens while you're busy making plans. 

Until this trip, however, I didn't realize how many expectations I brought with me. Naples, for example, was Naples. It didn't change because I was there, become something nefarious and awful because I arrived in its train station. Naples is as it's always been, and because I came to Italy imagining it all to be as I experienced it once or saw in a few movies, my expectations ruined my new experiences. 

Rome, on the other hand... oh Rome. 

There is something extraordinarily beautiful and intoxicating about the city of Rome. For the last few days I've been trying to work out what about the city gave me such joy. Part of it, I'm sure, was the juxtaposition between Naples and Rome. The garbage found throughout Naples didn't exist in Rome. In fact, as large cities go, Rome was relatively clear of debris (thought still a bit grimy, it is winter and a large city, after all). 

But most of it was Rome herself. There was a grace and elegance to the city and her casual antiquities. Turning a corner - any corner - would reveal another ancient wall or cathedral or relic of times long since passed. From the corner of my eye, I'd see something glisten in the sun, turn, and there would be a giant monument to some general of old in a small square leading to goodness knows where. 

In an earlier blog post, I mentioned being frustrated with how blasé my friend Isaac was about all of the amazing history in his city of Barcelona. To me, every wall, every gutter, every rooftop created before Columbus stumbled on the Americas meant something. Then I went to Pompeii and Herculaneum.

They are history. Their role is to teach us what was, not what is, because there is no "is" for those places. They died 2000 years ago, and those cities' role is to give us a window into another time.

Rome, however, shows us mounds of history while continuing to live and breathe. Like Barcelona, a city has continued amid and around the history it presents, but unlike Barcelona, a Roman colony, this is where the history of Rome began. And where she has grown, shifted, changed, and become something new and wonderful while capitalizing on her past without minimizing it.

The challenge in Rome became, for me at least, to not become as blasé about the history I came across as Isaac was about Barcelona's. 

Walking has become my de facto method for sussing out a city on this trip. I would pick a direction, walk until I found something interesting, stop and spend time there, pick another direction, and continue on. In Rome, there was no "bad direction" to pick. 

My first day in Rome, I walked out of my hostel and turned north. Within five blocks, I found a cathedral built in the 600s in the remains of a grand bathhouse built some 700 years prior. (Here's where I'm going to point out that I'm throwing around hundreds in a historical context for buildings when my country's current government - the longest running democratic government in history - isn't even 250 years old. This must be what it's like to be a millionaire with a few 20s in your pocket.)

From that cathedral, I found several others, each with a distant and wonderful story to tell. I walked into each one in a state of awe, that first day. I blessed myself and my rosaries, and I took a million pictures, and I understood how the Christian church stood for so long. When their very buildings are built in history on nearly every corner, steeped in traditions not even their own, and they speak with the authority of their god, one must stop and listen. One must give credence to the words spoken. 

As I wandered along the narrow stone roads, I came across Trevi Fountain, the Maker of Wishes. It is, as one tourist article reminded me, the only fountain in Rome bestowed with the ability to make your wishes come true. Tossing a coin in any other fountain merely makes the city a bit richer, while Trevi... ah Trevi Fountain brings true love a la Maggie McNamara in Three Coins in a Fountain. It brings your dearest wish to you, be it love, career, or simply joy, when you throw a coin into it with your right hand over your left shoulder. It was Roman iconography to me, even packed to the gills with people.

And on my day went. Direction picked, walk, stop and take a million pictures. Rinse, repeat.

Until I glanced up and saw the Colosseum. And stone pillars coming from a deep hole in the ground. And ... and ... and ...

Click. Click. Click. 

Yeah, I took a lot of pictures. 

The people wandered past, smiling and nodding as we caught one another's eyes. They were of all sizes, shapes, ages, and races. Languages and accents enlivened every street corner. Buskers, hustlers, tourists, and locals alike brought color to the streets I walked down. Not only did this city provide history. She brought to her streets a crossroads of our world today just as she had 1500 years ago. Rome continues to bring people together to enrich society.

This was Day 1, people. I'd stumbled onto a trove of joy unending and was completely lost on how to even respond or react. My heart raced, my face flushed, and I'm fairly certain my pupils dilated. I was unquestioningly, unequivocally, in love with this city. 

I'm tired, worn out, and ready for a break

I'm leaving Rome today. It's been wonderful here, and I'm already making a list of what to see when I come back, but I'm also glad to be leaving. Not because of anything negative or bad. I'm just...

... tired.

Those who know me well know that I push myself hard, and I'm not one to let little things like pain or exhaustion get in my way. If I want to do something, I'm going to do it all the way. This trip is a perfect example of this.

Going to Europe for one's birthday happens all the time. I've met four other people since I've been here who came specifically to celebrate their birthdays. We've actually bonded over our Sagittarian wanderlust and need for adventure without a plan. But... they came for a couple of weeks. They went to a couple of cities. Then they went home... while I'm still here. Still pushing myself to see it all, do it all.

The next few days, however, are promising to be far more low-key and less taxing in every possible way. I'm going to hang out with my buddy Brian in the middle of England, where there isn't the stress of roommates, trying to navigate a foreign language, and feeling like I have to walk everywhere and do everything. And guys, he has a bathtub! I may soak every morning and night the entire four days I'm there, my body aches so much.

In general, travel stresses a person. Being somewhere new,  anywhere new, not sleeping in your own bed, not choosing your own meals or schedule, it all stresses you. It's exciting. It's fun. It's an adventure! But yeah, stressful. Add trying to navigate a different language and culture to the mix while sharing a room with strangers that can bring their own personal and cultural differences (even those from your own country), and what you have, my friends, is a constant state of anxiety.

I want to make something very clear here. I have enjoyed every second of this trip, even the time in Naples. It has been amazing. I've learned so much about myself, the world, and what it means to "live globally". I've checked off boxes, but I hope in a meaningful way and not just a "yep, saw it; time to move on" kind of way. I have a massive stack of research books saved on Amazon right this instant because I'm leaving with a desire to learn more and to understand better. To come back better prepared to truly understand the history of the cultures I'm visiting.

But...

As of yesterday, I've averaged 10 miles of walking every day for 14 days. I've climbed thousands of stairs. I've slept an average of 6 hours a night, and eaten primarily carbs. My body is done. I need fresh vegetables (don't laugh at me, Tracy), and lean protein, and rest. Oh so much rest. Because, I want to remind you all, I'm an old lady. I turned 50 a little over a week ago.

Last night, I was talking with one of my bunk mates, a grad student from Texas. She's young - maybe 26 or 27? - and here for a month as well. She's actually going sort of the opposite direction that I did, starting in France, then Italy, and then ending in Spain. We talked about what we'd seen, what was coming up, compared notes on Naples (she agrees that the city feels angry), and generally had a great conversation. Then I told her that I'd seen four museums on my birthday before going out for drinks and dinner with Isaac. Her jaw dropped. We talked about all the walking, and how many miles I'm averaging, and she flat out said there was no way she could, or would, do that.

It gave me pause. I thought I was building a lot of downtime into my schedule. I walked 10 miles yesterday, sure, but I also spent an hour and a half sitting at a cafe table watching it rain in the middle of the day. And an hour sitting during Vespers at St. Peter's. I was back at the hostel by 7pm after leaving at 10am. But it's not enough. I need those rests without the mad dashes from Point A to Point B.

So, time to rethink how I handle the rest of this trip. It will help having Brian along. I'll temper my speed, my drive, to make sure he's comfortable. I'll slow down.

To date, I've made it a point to soak in the moments, the experiences, wherever they happen. But now I'm also going to soak in the passages, the walks, the in-betweens. And if I don't get to everything, that's okay. I'll be back. This isn't a one-and-done.

I have nothing to prove, no one I'm doing this for but myself. And my self is saying to take it down a notch.

I'm listening. I promise. I'm listening. 

Vatican City made me cry, and not from fear of heights

I know I'm behind on my thoughts on Rome as a whole, but I wanted to write this up while I was still basking in the glow of St Peter's Basilica and Vatican City. It had an impact on me that I didn't expect, and I had to sit down for a little while to compose myself.

Many of you know that I was raised Catholic, and in fact, was very devout until I was 27 years old. It was the church of my godmother, a woman who taught me true unconditional love. It supported her and loved her and helped her through the most difficult parts of her life. She recognized the power of the church in her life, and shared that joy and love with me. Through our neighborhood church, I found peace in a chaotic life. By saying the rosary, I found calm in the storm of my soul.

And then I lost my son, and the church couldn't help me. I ached on a level I'd never known before and for the first time in my life, the church didn't soothe my soul. In fact, because of the turn it had taken being more angry and more aggressive against women who wanted a choice in how and when and with whom they should have a child, I found that the church felt abrasive against my heart, and I had to walk away. The Catholic church no longer brought me joy; it added to my pain.

For the past 23 years, I've still said my rosary when the need came, though it's been rare. Usually only on the death of a loved one, like my godmother or my friend Brian. I've gone to mass for occasions, not as a balm to my soul. I've been angry and hurt and felt betrayed by the men who drive what the church has become.

A few days ago, I came to Rome, the heart of my former church. One cannot turn a corner without coming across a church with history. One church that I stepped inside had been built inside the ruins of an ancient Roman bath in 600-ish CE! Know how I found this church? I walked up the street. No, seriously.

I've brought those two rosaries I bought in Montserrat to each of these churches and blessed them with the holy water that is in all Catholic churches.

I've knelt in each of these churches and prayed. I've lit candles, bowed my head, and with all of my heart, spoke to Jesus to bring this world back around to what He wanted, to bring His followers back into line with what He'd asked of them.

Several times, I've been brought to tears with the pain that's slowly breaking free of my heart. It's been a very long 23 years, and a lot has happened to close me off from the joy that I felt in the church that I know so well.

So, today... I went to Vatican City. It's so hard to explain to someone who isn't Catholic what this means. It's almost like ... walking into the pearly gates while still alive. There's a palpable air about the space. It vibrates with history, with lore, with joys, with sorrows.

I blessed myself and my rosaries as I did in each church before, and within moments, I felt the tears threaten. This wasn't just any church. This was St. Peter's. This was the church.

The Pope wasn't in attendance, of course, but that hardly mattered. This basilica held all Popes, past, present, and future. This space cowed to the power of all that had come and all that would come. I don't mean power in terms of politics, though that's also an obvious factor here. No, I mean the power of the love of the Christian God. I mean what Man would - and has done - in His name, and how that's changed the world several times over. The weight of that, the power, the strength in that conviction - I felt that as I walked the floor of that church.

At some point, as I wandered the floor, annoyed at the people who clearly didn't understand the sanctity they were being given access to, a choir began to sing. They were practicing, and sang only a few parts of a few songs, but the reverberations, the echoes, the added power to that space, undid me. I stood to the side and closed my eyes as tears streamed down my face. My soul broke free, and I felt.

What did I feel? Oh, so much. Everything. Nothing. All. None. My heart burst into a million pieces, and then pulled itself back together into something stronger, better, broken yet whole. I wish I could explain it to you in a way that would make sense, but I can't. It was wholly me, and yet, wholly, all of those who've been there. Who've felt true loss.

After I caught my breath and gave myself a minute to breathe again, I sought out the cuppola. Lance, the guy from Vesurvius, had strongly encouraged me to climb to the top, to see it all. He said that it was worth it. He, like me, is a "recovering" Catholic, so he understood without having to be told, and so I trusted him.

Going into St. Peter's is free. It's God's church, and therefore the church of the People. But the cuppola is a different beast. You can pay 10 Euro to take the elevator, or 8 Euro to walk the 554 stairs. Guess which I did? Yeah.... I took the hard route.

Wait. So here's where I should mention that I don't like enclosed spaces. Or heights. I'm not just a little leery of these things. I've been known to go into full-on panic-attack mode under the wrong circumstances. (I once ripped myself out of my dress in a blind panic because it felt too constraining. Not kidding.) But this was important. So, up I went.

The first stop was the rotunda above the church apse. (That's where the alter is in a Catholic church.) Here, we were at the mosaics. Oh, those mosaics. I couldn't help but think of CJ, Selene, and Ericka while I strolled along that walkway. Oh, you guys. You would have died!

Then, the choir began to sing again, and I paused, catching my breath. Then a priest gave a benediction of some sort. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his intonations were beautiful, and I stood there, my hands on the railing, just taking it all in, my fear - for the moment - gone.

Once the priest was done, I moved off the rotunda and back to the staircase... going up. Because the rotunda wasn't the cuppola. That was another 300+ stairs - in incredibly tight quarters - up.  Which I did, trudging along after multiple other people. Women, children, men, all huffed and puffed up those stairs to the very top. And I don't know how to explain how it looked from there other than... wow. Just... wow. Lance was so right.

Oh, I mean, I shook like a leaf, and breathed heavily, and at least one person looked at me a little alarmed. (There were a lot of people looking green around the gills, so it was kind of a thing up there. They were looking out for each other, and I got caught up in their concern.)

After a fairly short time, I decided that I'd had enough and tried to find the stairs down. They were not, however, readily apparent, and I started to panic a little. I did lamaze breathing (because I'm going to tell you right now that that stuff helps you through anything), and followed the wall until I finally came to the exit and made my way down, down, down those stairs. I've never been so grateful that my knees are solid as I was walking down those narrow, tight, winding stairs. (No picture of these because WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE I WAS TERRIFIED!!)

Once you come down from the cuppola, you end up on the roof of St Peter's. Not kidding. And there's a gift shop here. Again, not kidding.

I bought myself a case for my rosary (I'd already bought one for Graciela's) as well as a lovely little prayer from Pope Francis in Spanish to give to Graciela with her rosary. Then I hightailed it back down those 554 stairs to the bottom floor. I'd had enough of heights and ridiculously closed-in spaces.

The exit from the cuppola is through the church, so I walked back through the church to the holy water at the back to bless myself out of the church. (It's a Catholic thing.)

Only, there were people standing in line at the bowl taking pictures putting their hand into the holy water. WTF? *rolls eyes* So I went in, disrupting some girl's picture, put my finger in the holy water and blessed myself while glaring at the girl, and then walked out of the basilica.

Then, I sat on a stone bench and cried for a little bit. Not long - and not heaving sobs - but I just allowed myself to feel. I felt the pain, the anger, the frustrations of the last couple of decades ebb away. I felt the sorrow for my son come to my heart, hold it, and then seep away. And then, as I sat there, the bells of the church began to toll.

It was 4:40. I don't know the significance of that time (sundown?), but the bells rang loudly, clearly, and with gusto for several minutes, and people stood and stared at those bells in stunned silence. Then cameras came out, videos were taken, chatter began, and humanity fell back into the cadence and rhythm we all recognize and feel comfortable with.

I walked away from St Peter's Square then, my hand tightly coiled around the rosary box I'd bought, my heart sore and tender. And yet, I felt as though I'd fought a dragon in the hours I'd been in and on the basilica. I was bone tired, exhausted, and yet feeling completely alive and whole.