Rome is the home of domes,
(It’s certainly nothing like Nome);
These domes are worthy of poems
(They float on the city like foam)
And also of great fat tomes;
(It’s certainly nothing like Nome);
These domes are worthy of poems
(They float on the city like foam)
And also of great fat tomes;
There are golden domes and silver domes
And bronze (but never chrome),
And some are tall and some as squat as gnomes:
But this I can tell you about coming to Rome,
Wherever you go, wherever you roam,
You’ll find yourself running into a dome.
A bit of doggerel to get me moving.
The last two or three days have brought many sites and sights. On Thursday I visited the Museo Capitolino, where I only managed to tour the first floor, walked around the Coliseum, hiked part of the Forum (the free part; I was too late to make a visit to the main area worthwhile and will return), and poked my head into more churches than I can remember.
This morning, Friday, June whatever, found me out early to beat the lines at St. Peter’s. Following the advice of a friend, Sid Cundiff, I approached St. Peter’s on this occasion on the Via Della Coronari, a centuries old pilgrim route to the church. The street is very old and narrow, and shadowed by the tall buildings, shops on the street, apartments above, and walking in the shade was very pleasant in the early morning.
Then came the Ponte S. Angelo across the Tiber, a bridge pointed at the Castel S. Angelo and decorated with statues by Bernini. Another lope of a few hundred yards, and I passed through the usual security check and made my way to the short line outside the church.
Standing there, I kept wondering why our line was moving so slowly while on the other side of the railing people just walked to the top of the steps and disappeared. After about twenty minutes, I realized I was in the line for the cupola, not the church line. After laughing at myself—how did I miss the entry sign?—I entered the largest basilica in Christendom.
Words can't really do this marble wonder justice. Certainly not my words. And even more certainly not my pictures.
Let me give just one example of what I mean. When you enter the basilica and when you finally dare look up, everything is so perfectly proportioned that the church doesn’t seem so large after all. But then you begin walking. It’s the walking that enlarges the enclosed space—or no, the walking enlarges your vision of the space. Walking down the central aisle drives home the incredible length of the basilica, and looking at how tiny everyone appears in the distance below the many columns tells you of its dizzying heights. (My neck ached within the hour from looking so often toward the statuary and the ceiling.)
Priests and a bishop were celebrating various masses. In the main sanctuary a mass was being celebrated accompanied by with a near-celestial choir. For the next hour, these chapels were blocked off to pilgrims and sightseers.
I saw the usual sights there—the Pieta, the tomb of Saint Peter (very moving), the dome—but what most impressed me most was the tomb of St. John Paul II. Not its appearance, no: his resting place is plain compared to the other papal monuments. But this man has meant very much to me over the years. He was the pope when I entered the Church at age 40. His life and his writings inspired me. He lived a heroic life and was one of the great men of the last century. Only three people were praying at this site while hundreds of others walked by clicking cameras. So I asked the guard if I could pray, and he motioned me inside the rope. Here I knelt and asked this saint, this noble soul who is surely with God, to pray for me.
Then home before going back out this afternoon.
In the afternoon it’s time for the Navona Piazza with its three great fountains and its swarms of tourists. Fountains abound in Rome, of course, ranging from grand fountains like these to small fountains shooting water out of a wall. People drink from the small fountains or fill their water bottles.
Later this same evening, I have supper with the Jeffries family at Da Francesco’s (that maybe be misspelled) on the Piazza Der Fico. Their entire family—the three boys and Anna, all of whom have served time in my classroom—made this trip. For me, seeing them and being able to talk at length with people I knew came as a great delight. The boys—they’re not boys anymore, of course, but I see them that way—caught me up on their lives and work, and all of them spoke of their perambulations around Rome. While comparing notes, we ate supper. The restaurant was jammed, with a line outside, in part due to its appearance in the Rick Steven’s guidebook. I ordered salambucca, which was tasty, but it was Mrs. Jeffries who received the most interesting meal. She ordered beef tartare, and the waiter after many minutes delivered what was at least a pound of raw, spiced chopped beef topped with a raw egg. It made for an interesting last meal for her in Rome. (What was amusing is that the waiter, as it stated on the menu, would bring each dish when ready. All the rest of us had hot suppers, but it was that cold dish that came last).
Then afterwards home in the twilight.
Now some loose notes:
The guards in Saint Peter’s guards—not the gaudily clad Swiss Guards—are all young, Italian, and dressed in blue suits. Their job training must include learning how never to smile while working.
For several days, I tried to speak Italian, but the Italians, from shopkeepers to carabinieri, replied immediately in English. I finally put away my Guide to Italian book and gave up my lessons.
Unlike London, the police are everywhere in evidence here. In some of the main piazzas and in front of large government buildings are men dressed in combat gear carrying automatic rifles and submachine guns.
While in the Piazza Navona, I eavesdropped on four American teenagers sitting directly behind me. (I wasn't intentionally listening, but being eighteen inches away made ignoring the conversation impossible). My favorite quote: “I get sleepy when I care.” My second favorite (and it does make some sense): “Jack’s not ugly. He’s just not handsome.”
Finally, walking home and crossing the little plaza nearby, I saw an older man playing an accordion and a woman about his age jiggling a tambourine. They were trying to entertain a couple, nice-lookng and middle-aged, who were leaning against a pole and punching away at their cell phones. For a minute I watched this tiny drama, wondering who would win. Would the couple finally acknowledge the entertainers? Would the musicians finally give up?
I have no idea who won. They were still going at it when I laughed and walked away.
And bronze (but never chrome),
And some are tall and some as squat as gnomes:
But this I can tell you about coming to Rome,
Wherever you go, wherever you roam,
You’ll find yourself running into a dome.
A bit of doggerel to get me moving.
The last two or three days have brought many sites and sights. On Thursday I visited the Museo Capitolino, where I only managed to tour the first floor, walked around the Coliseum, hiked part of the Forum (the free part; I was too late to make a visit to the main area worthwhile and will return), and poked my head into more churches than I can remember.
This morning, Friday, June whatever, found me out early to beat the lines at St. Peter’s. Following the advice of a friend, Sid Cundiff, I approached St. Peter’s on this occasion on the Via Della Coronari, a centuries old pilgrim route to the church. The street is very old and narrow, and shadowed by the tall buildings, shops on the street, apartments above, and walking in the shade was very pleasant in the early morning.
Then came the Ponte S. Angelo across the Tiber, a bridge pointed at the Castel S. Angelo and decorated with statues by Bernini. Another lope of a few hundred yards, and I passed through the usual security check and made my way to the short line outside the church.
Standing there, I kept wondering why our line was moving so slowly while on the other side of the railing people just walked to the top of the steps and disappeared. After about twenty minutes, I realized I was in the line for the cupola, not the church line. After laughing at myself—how did I miss the entry sign?—I entered the largest basilica in Christendom.
Words can't really do this marble wonder justice. Certainly not my words. And even more certainly not my pictures.
Let me give just one example of what I mean. When you enter the basilica and when you finally dare look up, everything is so perfectly proportioned that the church doesn’t seem so large after all. But then you begin walking. It’s the walking that enlarges the enclosed space—or no, the walking enlarges your vision of the space. Walking down the central aisle drives home the incredible length of the basilica, and looking at how tiny everyone appears in the distance below the many columns tells you of its dizzying heights. (My neck ached within the hour from looking so often toward the statuary and the ceiling.)
Priests and a bishop were celebrating various masses. In the main sanctuary a mass was being celebrated accompanied by with a near-celestial choir. For the next hour, these chapels were blocked off to pilgrims and sightseers.
I saw the usual sights there—the Pieta, the tomb of Saint Peter (very moving), the dome—but what most impressed me most was the tomb of St. John Paul II. Not its appearance, no: his resting place is plain compared to the other papal monuments. But this man has meant very much to me over the years. He was the pope when I entered the Church at age 40. His life and his writings inspired me. He lived a heroic life and was one of the great men of the last century. Only three people were praying at this site while hundreds of others walked by clicking cameras. So I asked the guard if I could pray, and he motioned me inside the rope. Here I knelt and asked this saint, this noble soul who is surely with God, to pray for me.
Then home before going back out this afternoon.
In the afternoon it’s time for the Navona Piazza with its three great fountains and its swarms of tourists. Fountains abound in Rome, of course, ranging from grand fountains like these to small fountains shooting water out of a wall. People drink from the small fountains or fill their water bottles.
Later this same evening, I have supper with the Jeffries family at Da Francesco’s (that maybe be misspelled) on the Piazza Der Fico. Their entire family—the three boys and Anna, all of whom have served time in my classroom—made this trip. For me, seeing them and being able to talk at length with people I knew came as a great delight. The boys—they’re not boys anymore, of course, but I see them that way—caught me up on their lives and work, and all of them spoke of their perambulations around Rome. While comparing notes, we ate supper. The restaurant was jammed, with a line outside, in part due to its appearance in the Rick Steven’s guidebook. I ordered salambucca, which was tasty, but it was Mrs. Jeffries who received the most interesting meal. She ordered beef tartare, and the waiter after many minutes delivered what was at least a pound of raw, spiced chopped beef topped with a raw egg. It made for an interesting last meal for her in Rome. (What was amusing is that the waiter, as it stated on the menu, would bring each dish when ready. All the rest of us had hot suppers, but it was that cold dish that came last).
Then afterwards home in the twilight.
Now some loose notes:
The guards in Saint Peter’s guards—not the gaudily clad Swiss Guards—are all young, Italian, and dressed in blue suits. Their job training must include learning how never to smile while working.
For several days, I tried to speak Italian, but the Italians, from shopkeepers to carabinieri, replied immediately in English. I finally put away my Guide to Italian book and gave up my lessons.
Unlike London, the police are everywhere in evidence here. In some of the main piazzas and in front of large government buildings are men dressed in combat gear carrying automatic rifles and submachine guns.
While in the Piazza Navona, I eavesdropped on four American teenagers sitting directly behind me. (I wasn't intentionally listening, but being eighteen inches away made ignoring the conversation impossible). My favorite quote: “I get sleepy when I care.” My second favorite (and it does make some sense): “Jack’s not ugly. He’s just not handsome.”
Finally, walking home and crossing the little plaza nearby, I saw an older man playing an accordion and a woman about his age jiggling a tambourine. They were trying to entertain a couple, nice-lookng and middle-aged, who were leaning against a pole and punching away at their cell phones. For a minute I watched this tiny drama, wondering who would win. Would the couple finally acknowledge the entertainers? Would the musicians finally give up?
I have no idea who won. They were still going at it when I laughed and walked away.
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