WELCOME TO ROME I knew just how he felt. |
Rome has been more fortunate than Florence. Rome has been sacked so many times over the course of history they've long since given up trying to LIVE in their historic district. Instead they've planted grass, flowers, graceful Mediterranean pines, spruced up the ruins as best they could, and then let the rest of the city keep pace with modern times. It's a genuinely beautiful city - big, yes; old, definitely - but also bright and lively; and if it is congested at times, at least it's a thoroughly modern form of congestion, rather than one stemming from a misguided devotion to Medieval nostalgia. The city of Rome has left the Renaissance to gracefully reside across the Tiber in Vatican City where the ecclesiastical way of life is much slower, much gentler, much more suited to such ancient surroundings. In Rome, they prefer the powerful image of the Roman Empire to that of the quatrocento. In Rome, the predominant color is a luscious, vibrant, lively green, not the browns, grays, and tans of antiquity.
I'd always pictured my entry into Vatican City as a long march up the middle of St. Peter's Square, up the steps, sweeping majestically through the giant church doors, and straight down the cavernous nave of the magnificent Baroque cathedral. Instead, we kind of sneaked in through a back door to the Vatican Museum from the north side, where those of the clergy who know tourists best have wisely chosen to install a modern day visitor reception area, its ambiance lodged somewhere between that of an air terminal and a department store. With its adjoining bus parking garage, computerized turnstiles, information kiosks, and long, gliding escalators, it's typically Roman - never allowing antiquity to stand in the way of efficiency.
The Vatican Museum is bright, airy, and FULL, as much with people as art - a marked contrast to many American museums. We didn't really visit the museum, we merely trouped through a small part of it. I saw only some stone sculpture (okay, EVERY stone sculpture ever unearthed in Rome), a lot of beautiful ceiling frescoes featuring amazing tromp l'oeil effects, some pretentious, mural-size paintings, and a lot of uniformed guards apparently more interested in preventing flash photography as opposed to warning people about touching their antique treasures. At one point, in fact, I caught myself resting my elbow on a Roman marble from the first century AD. No doubt looking guilty as sin, I peered about. No one seemed to have noticed.
The path we trod through the museum made a beeline for the Sistine Chapel. We entered through the same door used by the pope, below and to the right of the Last Judgment as if joining the legions of the damned just over our heads in seeking refuge from the gates of hell. Although afterwards, I vaguely recalled reading that Michelangelo's Last Judgment had been restored, I was not prepared for the awesome power this work conveys in its now pristine state. Over the years, I've studied the Sistine ceiling in minute detail, and it's certainly impressive. But it's also some 70 feet straight up. The Last Judgment is nearly eye-level at its lowest point, and its anguished figures, played out against Michelangelo's gorgeous, bright blues, are so real and overwhelming as to make his retelling of Genesis seem architectonic by comparison. Painted some 22 years after the ceiling, his Last Judgment, demonstrates that the man certainly knew how to do an encore.
The meager twenty minutes we were allowed to spend in Michelangelo's art gallery would have been sad except for the anticipation of seeing St. Peter's itself just down the steps and around the corner. The floor of the Sistine Chapel is, by the way, at least one, maybe two, stories higher than that of the Cathedral. Out of curiosity, I asked what was under the Sistine Chapel. I was told the area housed the Vatican's modern art collection - how ironic. Inside the Cathedral itself, there is nothing human about the scale of anything (there, or in any other of the public areas of St. Peter's). It's a humbling experience, as was intended by everyone who had a hand in fashioning it. Not just in its scale, it's humbling, too, finding oneself in the lingering presence of the creative genius of those who helped fashion it. Forget about getting close to Michelangelo's Vatican Pieta just inside the front doors. Just SEEING it is difficult over the heads of the thousands of others hoping to do the same. Even though everything is in plain sight, like the museum, there's simply too much to see. One's eyes take refuge from the overwhelmingly magnificent by focusing on the mundane. There are grated openings in the marble floor looking very much like manhole covers to allow light into the crypts below. On one side, a line forms leading down to them, while on the other side, a longer line awaits those fit enough for the strenuous climb to the dome. Alas, we had time for neither.
If the ghost of Michelangelo dominates the interior of St. Peter's, outside is the realm of Gianlorenzo Bernini, who dramatically set the stage for this most important church in Christendom. His comforting colonnades embrace St. Peter's Square with a surprising degree of warmth and love, given their staggering size and cold, hard stone. The saints arrayed around the top, each individually illuminated at night, look down upon worshipers, clergy, and tourists alike, as if blessing us, much as his Holiness does regularly from the third window from the right, top floor of the Papal Palace, which also overlooks the square.
Souvenir shops, lunch, and a scenic bus ride along the Tiber and across town are anticlimactic after all this, even if what awaits us at the end is the Flavian Amphitheater, better known as the Colosseum. Old never looked better. The ancient, park-like, Roman Forum spreads out scenically before it for almost a mile like a giant mall, just as I'd always imagined. This former stone quarry (whence came much of the stone for St. Peter's) which once was the scene of horrific, senseless, human carnage, now seems benign and romantic in the late afternoon sun. Modern Romans, dressed as ancient Romans, work the crowds, posing for pictures, then demand a modeling fee. Inside, the ever practical modern Romans have boarded over about a forth of the gaping, underground area (two stories deep) where lions and Christians alike once waited to entertain the clamoring masses, up to 55,000 at a time, all of whom could exit the structure through its circle of arches in just fifteen minutes. My exit from the Colosseum, and Rome itself, took considerably longer than that. Exhausted from my nine-hour fling with the eternal city, I slept during all of the 90-minute bus trip from the grandeur of Rome to the port of Civitavecchia and the Grandeur of the Seas.