Illegitimate Sun

As promised, there’s more to tell from the Roman Holiday.

Near Termi is the Museo Nazionale Romano housed in what used to be the Baths of Diocletian. I had a spare hour before my train left, so I wandered this museum for a small period. The two primary exhibits were burial relics from Etruscan tribes and the restored Great Cloisters – a grand courtyard designed by Michelangelo. In this courtyard were ancient Roman statuary and a heady, earthen scent that invited one to sit and doze. I was instantly enchanted by the courtyard’s lull and had to flee to insure my prompt exit from Rome.

Sharing the site with the museum is the church Santa Maria Degli Angeli. This church is the hidden basilica of Rome. It’s front wall literally looks like a crumbling brick wall; from the exterior, you’d never know what was hidden inside. Designed by Michelangelo (again), this church has sixty foot vaulted ceilings, marbled floors and pillars, twenty foot tall paintings and a Rose Line cutting a diagonal swath toward the altar. It incorporates the breezy openess of the original baths with a hush awe of ancient churchs. It’s a great find that I walked by literally every day without even noticing. I’m appreciate the whim that lead me in following a tour group.

From there, I went straight to Termi and caught my train to my plane.

The flight to Amsterdam was excruciating. A family of four sat in the three seats behind me. If the six year old behind wasn’t beating / kicking the back of my chair, he was tormenting his younger brother into screaming directly into my ear. I ask the kid to stop; I asked his parents to stop him; I even asked the stewardess to say a word. Suddenly, I feel a cold liquid pouring down my back. I look up to see the kid leaning over my seat, spilling soda down my back.

Action had to be taken. Hitting the recline button on my seat, I lean back forcefully. The kid is slung off the back of my chair and into his seat. There was a satisfying thump as hit sank into the cushions. Standing up, I look back at the family and cross my arms. ‘Just say something, please.’ The father looks away as the mother finally begins to scold her kid.

The younger kid continued to scream the rest of the flight.

Sadly, they were not the only annoying passenger I would encounter in the next twenty-four hours.

Schipol, the airport for Amsterdam, is a marvel of modern planning. In it, you could find everything a traveller needs. It is a combination airport (duh), mall, grocery store, hotel, and transport hub. You can get a massage, log onto the internet, and buy a suit all within 60 feet of each other.

Or you could if these were open, but my layover was to stretch through the middle of the night. Nothing was open but the hotel. That made it easier to drop my bag in a locker and catch a train to the Red Light District.

Don’t get me wrong, Amsterdam has some lovely attractions that I would kill to see. The Van Gogh museum, the Riks museum, windmills, tulip gardens, dikes, and canals. None of these are really visible at midnight on a Tuesday. So I had to settle for the Red Light District.

I’d done my research. Websites had told me the train station to visit and directions into the district. I promptly got lost. The Red Light District is much more district than red light. There are hundreds of bars, restaurants, and fast food stalls. I’ve seen these; that’s the American form of decadence. I was more interested in seeing public forms of depravity that America keeps private.

I resorted to following my nose. The scent of pot wafted past the canals and following it was the sound of frat boys giggling. I eventually found my way into the heart of the Red Light District. ‘Coffeshops’ offering hash and marijuana dotted the landscape and drifters floated down narrow alleys the wound off the main streets.

The coffeshops were an odd mix of hardwood & brass bars and Marley / rasta decorations. In all honesty, they didn’t really draw me in.

The narrow alleys that were attracting crowds. What were those?

These were the red light portions of the district. When I say narrow alleys, I mean 3-4 feat wide at most. Lining the alley were small rooms with windows facing inwards. Each window had neon lights lining the edges and a mostly naked girl peering out. Black lighting made the lingerie worn stand out like glowing billboards in the night. In way, they were.

Some women peered out at the passing guys with curiousity, lust, or indifference. Some smiled and winked. Others just sat reading the paper. In many windows, there were thick curtains drawn. Eventually, a guy would approach a window. The girl inside would open a door, they’d talk, and both would disappear inside and draw the curtains.

I’d never seen such transactions handled so openly. Shoppers clearly checking out the merchandise walked down these alleys alongside elderly couples and gawking tourists (me). I was glad that I didn’t go into shock or start thumping a bible or something. It was a different world. Not a bad world, just different from the small-town Missouri that I grew up in.

Eventually, I ended up in a Irish Pub called Durty Nelley’s – named after a pub in Shannon, which I’ve visited. Whiskey was expensive, coca-cola even more so. I stuck with just whiskey.

Finally, at 4:00 I marched back to the train to Schipol. There, I took a shower (love that airport) and slept on a bench until my flight early the next morning.

This flight was also scene to another annoying traveler: hairy-armed no deodorant guy.

For some reason, the guy in front of me constantly held his right arm up over his head. We’re talking a gorilla arm here. For most of the flight, he held it up in front of the movie screen. Worse, he had never even heard of deodorant. A ripe odor permeated the plane.

I slept during as much of the flight as I could.

My last day in Rome started like the plot of a sitcom.

I woke early and decided to shave on the balcony out of deference to the roommates. I use an electric razor and it can be noisy at times.

Out in the fresh air, I removed the front face plate to empty the stubble and watch the plate fly out of my hands and tumble six floors down to the courtyard below. Quickly, I made note of where it had landed and raced down the stairs. Running around the corner, I saw the face plate not ten feet in front of me. I also saw that construction worker that poured a whole bucket of rubble down upon it. Turns out that they’re remodeling the courtyard and this was their trash pile.

What could I do?

I borrowed a shovel and spent the next 15 minutes excavating my razor. Honestly, I’m surprised I found it and that it still works. I had to toss one of the three rotary blades, but two will hold me until get home.

Finally showered AND shaved, I returned to the Vatican. I had yet to go up in the dome over the altar. In buying tickets, I had two choices: use the stairs or pay more and use the lift. I’m young, fit, and healthy; I chose to take the stairs.

I’m also now very sore.

There are over 600 stairs to the top of St. Peters! 300 to the interior of the central dome, 320 more to the cupola above. The stairs to the cupola were especially treacherous. A twisting, narrow path that had me climbing hunched over and turned sideways. It was like spelunking to the top of the basilica.

The view is well worth the effort.

I used the last of my film taking shots of that include the entire city of Rome. I spent an hour looking down on history and waiting for the light to be right for shots in certain directions. I also spent a good 30 minutes being crushed against the railing by a large group of junior-high kids from Moderna. If there was a limit on how many people could safely be up there, I think we exceeded it by half. Thank God for old world craftmanship.

Descending, I went back inside St. Peters to see the Pieta one more time. There, I encountered Julia – a British tour guide that has studied Renaissance art for the last 5 years. I learned so much more about the fabulous works in the Vatican. She offered to take me on a tour of the Vatican Museum, but I had to decline. I needed to get back to Termi in time to catch my flight home. We did have time for a nice lunch before I came here to talk to you all.

This is Joshua, signing off from Rome.

Ciao bella,

3:15 PM Rome time

There are times that I cannot believe how lucky I am when I travel. I meet amazing people, see tremendous sights, and stumble into the most bizarre moments.

Case in point: I decide to begin the day with a trip to Circus Maximus. The guide book tells me that all that is left is a large, grassy, oval park, but I decide to see for myself. Arriving, I notice some alluring ruins on the hillside looking down on the Circus.

I’m literally out in the middle of the street trying to capture these ruins on film, when I hear loud drumming rising up behind me. Startled, I jump around to see the Roman Legion marching upon me. Seriously. A Centurion in front began yelling and waving frantically. I understood, get off the road or be speared. I chose the safety of the sidewalk.

It turns out that this Monday was Rome’s birthday. A traditional parade happens from Circus Maximus to the Colosseum and I was in the forefront of it. Following the Legion came Senators, Gladiators, Vestile Virgins, Nobles and a host of other figures in traditional garb. I must have taken 70 pictures of the parade including one of me and a friendly Centurion.

Following that I visited the Bocca della Verita. Legend has it – any liar that places his hand in this stone idol’s mouth will have it bitten off. I took my chances and placed my hand in its mouth. Some of you will be surprised, but I kept all my digits.

Most of the rest of the day was spent just wandering. Again, I felt socialized out and just wanted the anonymity of the crowd for awhile.

I finally ended up in Santa Maria della Vittoria, a small unassuming little church off of Via Veneto. Don’t judge this church by its exterior. Hidden inside is the most baroque structure I’ve ever seen or heard of. Marble of many different hues line the walls. Gilded scupltures decorated the cornices. Carved statues cavorted about the ceiling alongside iconic paintings. The Ecstacy of St. Teresa – a Bernini sculpture almost sacriligeous in is presentation of joy – was hidden in a corner by the nave. So much was crammed into this church, it defies description.

The end of the night was spent getting some dinner. I went to restaurant and impressed myself by ordering the entire meal in Italian. I had fried calamari and the house wine. The calamari came with fried shrimp as well. The shrimp threw me for a loop. They were whole – shell, legs, antennae, tails, and eyes staring back at me from my plate. What was I to do?

I ate the suckers whole.

Time for bed. I met my new roomies Igor and Sierra and slept peacfully for the rest of the night.

Ciao, 3:00 PM in Rome