Living in Italy has taught me one thing about wine: people drink a lot of it. They know what they like, what it goes with, and how much it should cost. As far as I’m concerned, there are two types of wine: red and white. At restaurants I let my friends pick for me, and I either like it, or I don’t. However, this method is not without its flaws. What do I pick at the grocery store? When a friend comes to visit? Does red or white pair better with a romantic comedy on a Friday night in?
I decided to face this problem head on and organize a wine tasting. Two of my friends are taking a wine tasting class and it was high time to put them to the test, while trying to learn some pointers along the way. The date was set, three wines were bought, and I was given official Wine and Spirit Education Trust Tasting Notepaper to get me started.
The first wine, a Chianti, looked delicious when poured into a glass. The first thing I learned is one way to sound particularly snooty was to judge a wine’s color. Was this red purple, ruby, garnet, or tawny? Was it clear or dull, its intensity pale, medium, or deep? I took a stab at it: “Jolly Rancher grape purple!” Their reply was quick, “No, it’s ruby. Chiantis are famous for being ruby.” Oh.
How about the aroma? (To sound like an expert, say “the nose”) A long sniff and I immediately identified my first smell, “grapes, lots of grapes.” Unfortunately for my untrained nose, this was the only thing that I could think of, and brought me stern glares from across the table.
My companions had better luck with the sniffing then I did. Black fruit, leather, earth, butter (factoid: this means it was aged in an oak barrel), raspberries, currents, mushrooms, and green peppers. All this from a glass of wine? You better believe it. I soon realized you can pretty much name some known wine scents and would usually be right. The power of suggestion is very strong here and if anyone says you’re wrong, just point out that what you eat can greatly change the taste and smell.
After the nose had been analyzed I was finally allowed to move onto the taste. Instead of gulping my glass, I was instructed to take small sips which I then chew for no more than three seconds, to taste the optimum amount of pure flavors in the wine. After all the subtle sniffing, my first taste hit me like a foot on a grape. The wine was amazingly bitter, so much so that my tongue started to feel like the fabled leather they had smelled earlier.
Here’s something to impress with at your next party: tannin and acidity are often confused, but there is a big difference. Tannin leaves your mouth dry and can be a good thing. Acidity makes you salivate and is a bad thing. I learned to remember this by asking myself a simple question: would I like being dropped into a vat of acid? Of course not, because acidity is the bad one.
There is also the question of the body. Now, stop thinking about curvy bottles because this means the thickness. Think about milk when judging: does it have the consistency of skim milk, whole milk, or something in between? I said two percent which they translated into snob worthy term: “medium minus.”
The longer finish a wine has, the better the quality. Unfortunately for my taste buds, this one lasted forever, but at least I wasn’t drinking slop. Food pairing? Dark red meat or a very strong cheese, anything to lessen the bitterness of my glass.
Many notes, an hour, and two wines later and I said this, “I’m getting some pineapple, maybe mixed with some floral hints.” It was then that I realized I was becoming one of them. Wine has a lot more to it than its color. The way it’s grown, the stress the vine is put under, even the trace it leaves on the glass can tell you a lot about how it will taste. I learned a lot that night, and while I now feel a little more confident about selecting a bottle of my own, I think the most valuable thing I learned is this: with a few vocabulary words, the ability to improvise some fragrances, and a willingness to lie through wine stained teeth, anyone can make a sophisticated splash at a party, even if you did just show up for the booze.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The American - In Italia
I've gotten published in a magazine!
For a writing assignment on voice, we chose an author to parody and apply their style to our own Roma experience. I chose Salinger's style in The Catcher in the Rye and it got published by The American!
As of writing this entry, it can be found on the front page of their website, but here is a direct link:
http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=2372
For a writing assignment on voice, we chose an author to parody and apply their style to our own Roma experience. I chose Salinger's style in The Catcher in the Rye and it got published by The American!
As of writing this entry, it can be found on the front page of their website, but here is a direct link:
http://www.theamericanmag.com/article.php?article=2372
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
"Parlare Inglese?"
A peculiar thing happened today: a sassy old lady marched up to my friend Allie and I and confidentially said in the most American Italian I’ve ever heard, “parlare inglese?”
I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”
Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.
This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.
Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?
I was completely taken aback. Usually I am stopped on the street to be asked for directions, by other Italians, but this was the first time an American had stopped me. I felt like somehow she could’ve used some sort of American sense and known I was a fellow citizen. I had to stop myself from blurting out “of course!”
Having lived in Italy for a couple months now I’ve realized how much I really like being American. It really is so much a part of my identity and the delight I got from being mistaken for an Italian has faded to sadness, like an important part of my is being ignored. The disappointment (and sometimes disgust) I see on their faces, once I tell them (in Italian) that I’m American, is annoying.
This lady was one of the things I loved about America: old enough to be my grandma and the pluck and humor to keep her smiling in a country that looks down on her as a tourist more often than not. Just by looking at her you knew she would be fun to talk to with a sharp wit that’s always surprise great to discover within a sweet old lady. So when she asked me if I spoke English, it made me want to declare with pride “Yes! Yes I do!” and help her in every way humanly possible.
Unfortunately she wanted to locate a hotel, something I ignore regularly since I live in an apartment. We talked to her, trying to find some kind of hint that would point us in the right direction. Now it became more about the pride of living in Italy. I’m not a tourist! And yet I couldn’t give directions to a fellow American. So what am I?
Kabab
Italians don’t eat a lot of meat. Italy is known for pasta and while many do contain meat, it’s mostly for flavor purposes and to screw with vegetarians. You can always opt for the second course, which is purely meat, but while it may be so delicious you could cry, there is only enough for a few tantalizing bites of heaven.
But there is a way to get your meat fix in Italy: doner kebabs. For about four euro you will get a burrito-type meal typically filled with two types of cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes, a white dairy herb sauce, and tons of delicious salty lamb, cut right off of a large rack of meat slowly turning on a spit. Other variations include adding a spicy red sauce, dried peppers, and anything else lying around the kitchen, served also on plates or in a panino.
These savory wraps can be found down small side streets and in lots of cafeterias in many piazzas, such as Piazza Barberini, where I sometimes go in between classes. It’s one of the few things you can order in Italy that will actually leave you satisfyingly full and I absolutely love them.
But there is a way to get your meat fix in Italy: doner kebabs. For about four euro you will get a burrito-type meal typically filled with two types of cabbage, lettuce, tomatoes, a white dairy herb sauce, and tons of delicious salty lamb, cut right off of a large rack of meat slowly turning on a spit. Other variations include adding a spicy red sauce, dried peppers, and anything else lying around the kitchen, served also on plates or in a panino.
These savory wraps can be found down small side streets and in lots of cafeterias in many piazzas, such as Piazza Barberini, where I sometimes go in between classes. It’s one of the few things you can order in Italy that will actually leave you satisfyingly full and I absolutely love them.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Cheap Wine
Italian wine, ah yes, Italian wine. Whole sections in tiny markets are dedicated to the stuff and for prices that put toothpaste and shampoo to shame. The first thing I learned about Rome is the prices. Sure I was warned about that Rome was an expensive city, but I’m from Los Angeles, expensive is what I’m used to! Unfortunately when people say expensive, they mean it. Six euro for Herbal Essence? Damn.
Luckily wine is cheap as dirt here. Whether it’s pride or value, I don’t care. I never really drank wine in America, but here it’s everywhere, and is occasionally cheaper than water when shared with others in a restaurant, plus tastes better, so bottoms up!
There is a wine class offered at my school, and while I chose other classed over it, I plan on working together with its students in the near future to write my food piece for Travel Writing. To prepare, I decided to buy a bottle of wine beforehand. Something that is the bottom of the barrel, so I would be able to have something to compare with when it actually comes time for the wine tasting this week. This task interestingly proved difficult as everything sounded fancy to me, an uneducated student of wine. I thus reverted to the thrift store at the metro stop on Re de Roma. Incidentally, this store has amazing deals on everything from eggs to laundry detergent, being the only place I’ve found decently priced peanuts (don’t even get me started on other variations of nuts). I did succeed in finding cheap wine, simply called “Rosso”, clever. Incidentally, I am also a little over tipsy having quickly downed three fourths of a bottle.
Lesson learned: cheap wine tastes cheap. In Italy, if you go to a thrift store, you will find thrift wine. This particular variety, described as “fresco e leggero” tastes like the $8 wine I tasted near my 21st birthday: not very good. However, this wine didn’t cost $8, if it did then it would be good, instead it cost a little over one euro, the same price as these tortilla chips I am eating right now, interestingly labeled “tortilla chip - naturale”, which are also interestingly almost gone now.
Wine analysis: At 10.5% alcohol this wine is good if you’re interested in alcohol, as the taste is sure to convince you to gulp it. The color is red, a normal red to my eyes. I detect aromas of leather and old grapes. It’s “legs” are hard to analyze, which is probably a bad sign. Tannin? I have no clue. It is very bitter though and goes very well with chocolate, which makes me forget about the wine. Hopefully I’ll learned more from my upcoming wine tasting.
Something to take away from this: don’t drink wine alone while writing an essay. You will find it helps, at first, but then leads to distraction. Also, there is no one to tell you to share with, and one sips always leads to another after a certain point of “tasting”.
Luckily wine is cheap as dirt here. Whether it’s pride or value, I don’t care. I never really drank wine in America, but here it’s everywhere, and is occasionally cheaper than water when shared with others in a restaurant, plus tastes better, so bottoms up!
There is a wine class offered at my school, and while I chose other classed over it, I plan on working together with its students in the near future to write my food piece for Travel Writing. To prepare, I decided to buy a bottle of wine beforehand. Something that is the bottom of the barrel, so I would be able to have something to compare with when it actually comes time for the wine tasting this week. This task interestingly proved difficult as everything sounded fancy to me, an uneducated student of wine. I thus reverted to the thrift store at the metro stop on Re de Roma. Incidentally, this store has amazing deals on everything from eggs to laundry detergent, being the only place I’ve found decently priced peanuts (don’t even get me started on other variations of nuts). I did succeed in finding cheap wine, simply called “Rosso”, clever. Incidentally, I am also a little over tipsy having quickly downed three fourths of a bottle.
Lesson learned: cheap wine tastes cheap. In Italy, if you go to a thrift store, you will find thrift wine. This particular variety, described as “fresco e leggero” tastes like the $8 wine I tasted near my 21st birthday: not very good. However, this wine didn’t cost $8, if it did then it would be good, instead it cost a little over one euro, the same price as these tortilla chips I am eating right now, interestingly labeled “tortilla chip - naturale”, which are also interestingly almost gone now.
Wine analysis: At 10.5% alcohol this wine is good if you’re interested in alcohol, as the taste is sure to convince you to gulp it. The color is red, a normal red to my eyes. I detect aromas of leather and old grapes. It’s “legs” are hard to analyze, which is probably a bad sign. Tannin? I have no clue. It is very bitter though and goes very well with chocolate, which makes me forget about the wine. Hopefully I’ll learned more from my upcoming wine tasting.
Something to take away from this: don’t drink wine alone while writing an essay. You will find it helps, at first, but then leads to distraction. Also, there is no one to tell you to share with, and one sips always leads to another after a certain point of “tasting”.
Stares
Don’t dance up stairs because you will fall. Especially don’t dance to yourself on the subway, skip past tired Italians heading for the escalators, and decide to take the stairs instead, because you will fall. And you won’t just fall, you will make a fairly impressive skip up and down a step and then trip your toe on said step and hurtle toward the ground, moved even faster by the momentum required for such a stunt. You will then be left with a stinging left palm and a right hand covered in who knows what. So don’t do this. Unless you don’t mind, of which I learned recently that I don’t.
Italians love to stare at each other all day and all night. On the metro, in a trattoria, at bus stops. They never stop ogling everyone around them. And they don’t just stare, they judge. They judged me when I mouthed the words to the song in my head. They judged me when I skipped past them, offending them by my inexhaustible energy. And they got great satisfaction when I finally met my end at the top of the stairs.
Interestingly though, I didn’t mind. I have just spent the last week thinking about Italy and Italians, and you know what? I don’t care! It used to bother me, I’d be stared into standing bored in the metro, waiting for my stop like the rest. There are rules to behavior, and if you break one, you offend everyone around you. For example, one of my teachers talked about her Italian boyfriend (she happens to be American) and how he came home one night deeply offended by a student of his. This student approached him after class one day to discuss something, asking for an extension on a paper or whatever, and he was wearing a hat. A hat! Indoors! Now I know it’s good manners to remove headwear when inside, my school banned hats on heads in classrooms, but to be offended by it? She emphasized that he didn’t just think this kid was ignorant of manners, but that he was personally offended by his headwear. So I think I’m safe in assuming that those penetrating glares directed at me are intended to be penetrating glares.
But today I did not give them that victory over me. Yes, I fell, and yes, I noticed very satisfied grins directed at my pain, but I was smiling too. Looking around me I noticed smiles quickly revert back to disapproving frowns once they saw my grin. I got up without a second down and continued dancing, skipping all the way to the second flight and out the door.
Italians love to stare at each other all day and all night. On the metro, in a trattoria, at bus stops. They never stop ogling everyone around them. And they don’t just stare, they judge. They judged me when I mouthed the words to the song in my head. They judged me when I skipped past them, offending them by my inexhaustible energy. And they got great satisfaction when I finally met my end at the top of the stairs.
Interestingly though, I didn’t mind. I have just spent the last week thinking about Italy and Italians, and you know what? I don’t care! It used to bother me, I’d be stared into standing bored in the metro, waiting for my stop like the rest. There are rules to behavior, and if you break one, you offend everyone around you. For example, one of my teachers talked about her Italian boyfriend (she happens to be American) and how he came home one night deeply offended by a student of his. This student approached him after class one day to discuss something, asking for an extension on a paper or whatever, and he was wearing a hat. A hat! Indoors! Now I know it’s good manners to remove headwear when inside, my school banned hats on heads in classrooms, but to be offended by it? She emphasized that he didn’t just think this kid was ignorant of manners, but that he was personally offended by his headwear. So I think I’m safe in assuming that those penetrating glares directed at me are intended to be penetrating glares.
But today I did not give them that victory over me. Yes, I fell, and yes, I noticed very satisfied grins directed at my pain, but I was smiling too. Looking around me I noticed smiles quickly revert back to disapproving frowns once they saw my grin. I got up without a second down and continued dancing, skipping all the way to the second flight and out the door.
Today's Response to Poetry
Two in class free writing responses to this poem: http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2008/10/06/081006po_poem_warren
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
I like how she uses the word “serious”. “Serious cooking.” I don’t do “serious cooking,” and if I did it sure as hell wouldn’t be in the morning. Pour cereal, crack some eggs, whatever, just get some food in me. I don’t usually wake up early either, most of my breakfasts could properly be defined as “lunch”, but no, my real lunch will come later and my dinner is sometimes at ten. Mara (one of my roommates) gets on my case about it, “but it’s ten! You can’t eat dinner at ten!” Oh can’t I? You know my family is halfway across the globe experiencing the afternoon on the West Coast and don’t they exist just as we do? They are eating their lunch when it’s ten in Italy?! Gasp, how strange! And yet I’m hungry now and so I will eat now. Not at five, not six, I wasn’t hungry then, but now. And it probably won’t be serious cooking either.
Churches and cooking? Microwaved apostles? I don’t quite get it but maybe it’s because tympanums and so on make me think of things I learned in school, not walking by and experiencing them for the first time by seeing one. I guess that would change your view later in life and you could play with them more. I wish my lettuce was that pretty.
My personal food map (also made and shared in class):
The Next Day
Saint Patrick’s Day isn’t celebrated much in Italy. Actually, it’s not celebrated at all past tourist themed events. Maybe that’s why I “celebrated” it this year. That, or I was pressured into joining my friends at a pub crawl. But let’s go with the first, it sounds better than elementary school peer pressure.
A pub crawl: an activity where you pay good money to hyperactive organizers so they will take you to various bars and clubs, beginning with a large establishment where they will give you as many drinks and pizza as your immature heart desires. After an hour of this, you will proceed to various other locations with the group only to be greeted with more free booze (this time shots) at each venue.
Responsible, I know.
But really it’s the next day I shall talk about. That morning, my head swimming, I left my friend’s apartment and turned the corner towards the metro, or what I thought was the corner towards the metro. Guess what? It wasn’t.
A half hour later and I began to catch on. A half hour had passed by because I naturally got distracted a couple times. First off, there is an enormous mercato filled with vendors and tables like at a flea market back home. Fish, luggage, wine, sewing kits, this place has it all and it is extremely fun to wander through, though after a couple minutes of turning corners I noticed everyone was craning their necks to stare at me. Some even walked out of their stands and said hello. It might have been the giant green eyeliner shamrock on my face, but you can never be too sure.
Mercatos are fantastic. People of every sort bustle through the lanes, it’s the fastest I’ve ever seen Italian grandmothers move. The air is filled with shouts to and fro, the smell of cappuccinos from an oddly placed café, and food being tossed to costumers, costumers who don’t always catch it. You must be agile here, you don’t know when a rogue potato might roll your way.
Finally leaving I noticed the happiest dog in the world skipping around his owner. His tail must have been going a hundred miles an hour. Dogs are widely accepted in Italy, even joining their companions inside restaurants at times. This dog decided he wanted desperately to go inside a butcher shop and when that didn’t work he decided a toddler clothes store was just as good. However, the lady resisted and dragged him onward.
This is about the time I nearly fell in a puddle, recovering quick enough to look up and see a street sign. One I didn’t know. I was thirsty and wanted to go in a supermarket. I had never seen one in this area before (near the Vatican) so I went down this unknown street. If it was unknown, it might have an unknown supermarket. There was. Today rocked!
I walked some more, realizing that I was probably lost, and looked up to see a building on a far mountain. An observatory? An observatory that resembled the mansion in Casper? How was I not informed about this? I want to visit it!
And then I almost got hit by a car. Rule of thumb, kiddos: always look where you’re walking. Another rule of thumb: traffic lights are only a suggestion to drivers in Italy, especially red.
An ancient lady with a better phone than I’ve ever owned laughed at me as she continued typing out a text. Calming down, I inspected my surroundings. Yup, I had become hopelessly lost and I sure wasn’t about to turn around. It was okay though, today was nice, the sun was shining (a rarity, oddly enough). All I had to do was head for the river. I kept repeating that in my head. Head for the river. If I found the river, I found my route to the metro, or home, it really depended on how far I had wandered as I was pushing an hour now.
I walked for what seemed like an eternity and this sudden adventure wasn’t so fun anymore once my feet started hurting. Seriously where was I? Apartments towered above me, higher then I had seen before. Empty schools appeared every once in a while, but large streets alluded me. I tried turning a corner only to come face to face with an old man chewing on his cell phone. Well that’s different. Suddenly two buttons pop off my coat and I scramble to retrieve them. I want to go home now.
Blocks of walking and an unknown amount of time later I found it: the glorious metro that shown out of the street like a beacon of hope. Fittingly it was outlined by St Peter’s in the distance and I swear I could hear angels singing. I scrambled down the stairs, shoved my monthly pass into the machine, and, for the first time in over a month, sat down in the metro.
A pub crawl: an activity where you pay good money to hyperactive organizers so they will take you to various bars and clubs, beginning with a large establishment where they will give you as many drinks and pizza as your immature heart desires. After an hour of this, you will proceed to various other locations with the group only to be greeted with more free booze (this time shots) at each venue.
Responsible, I know.
But really it’s the next day I shall talk about. That morning, my head swimming, I left my friend’s apartment and turned the corner towards the metro, or what I thought was the corner towards the metro. Guess what? It wasn’t.
A half hour later and I began to catch on. A half hour had passed by because I naturally got distracted a couple times. First off, there is an enormous mercato filled with vendors and tables like at a flea market back home. Fish, luggage, wine, sewing kits, this place has it all and it is extremely fun to wander through, though after a couple minutes of turning corners I noticed everyone was craning their necks to stare at me. Some even walked out of their stands and said hello. It might have been the giant green eyeliner shamrock on my face, but you can never be too sure.
Mercatos are fantastic. People of every sort bustle through the lanes, it’s the fastest I’ve ever seen Italian grandmothers move. The air is filled with shouts to and fro, the smell of cappuccinos from an oddly placed café, and food being tossed to costumers, costumers who don’t always catch it. You must be agile here, you don’t know when a rogue potato might roll your way.
Finally leaving I noticed the happiest dog in the world skipping around his owner. His tail must have been going a hundred miles an hour. Dogs are widely accepted in Italy, even joining their companions inside restaurants at times. This dog decided he wanted desperately to go inside a butcher shop and when that didn’t work he decided a toddler clothes store was just as good. However, the lady resisted and dragged him onward.
This is about the time I nearly fell in a puddle, recovering quick enough to look up and see a street sign. One I didn’t know. I was thirsty and wanted to go in a supermarket. I had never seen one in this area before (near the Vatican) so I went down this unknown street. If it was unknown, it might have an unknown supermarket. There was. Today rocked!
I walked some more, realizing that I was probably lost, and looked up to see a building on a far mountain. An observatory? An observatory that resembled the mansion in Casper? How was I not informed about this? I want to visit it!
And then I almost got hit by a car. Rule of thumb, kiddos: always look where you’re walking. Another rule of thumb: traffic lights are only a suggestion to drivers in Italy, especially red.
An ancient lady with a better phone than I’ve ever owned laughed at me as she continued typing out a text. Calming down, I inspected my surroundings. Yup, I had become hopelessly lost and I sure wasn’t about to turn around. It was okay though, today was nice, the sun was shining (a rarity, oddly enough). All I had to do was head for the river. I kept repeating that in my head. Head for the river. If I found the river, I found my route to the metro, or home, it really depended on how far I had wandered as I was pushing an hour now.
I walked for what seemed like an eternity and this sudden adventure wasn’t so fun anymore once my feet started hurting. Seriously where was I? Apartments towered above me, higher then I had seen before. Empty schools appeared every once in a while, but large streets alluded me. I tried turning a corner only to come face to face with an old man chewing on his cell phone. Well that’s different. Suddenly two buttons pop off my coat and I scramble to retrieve them. I want to go home now.
Blocks of walking and an unknown amount of time later I found it: the glorious metro that shown out of the street like a beacon of hope. Fittingly it was outlined by St Peter’s in the distance and I swear I could hear angels singing. I scrambled down the stairs, shoved my monthly pass into the machine, and, for the first time in over a month, sat down in the metro.
Midterm - Macabre Rome: A Cut Above the Rest
My first week in Rome was pleasant enough: puffy white clouds, songbirds in the morning, people smiling in the streets, and dozens of decaying human remains waiting to greet me in churches. In America, you are hard pressed to find a lifeless body on display anywhere outside of a morgue and even then you need a really good reason to see it. I was particularly interested in the heads: the most recognizable and psychological feature now just a mere object. I viewed many sites, but below you’ll only find the spots that were a head and shoulder above the rest.
Saint Valentine, Santa Maria in Cosmedin
I decided to visit this lovely saint’s decapitated cranium on Valentine’s Day, but was surprised to find the 4th century church nearly empty, even though a line wrapped around the building for pictures with its other famous attraction: La Bocca della Verità, or The Mouth of Truth. I guess some people have better things to do on the day of love than visit the dead.
Saint Valentine has got to be the tiniest head I have ever seen, living or departed. It seems at some point a creative monk thought it would be a good idea to shove some red roses on him, almost like Jesus’ crown of thorns. Poor Valentine sadly gazes out at his audience, completely embarrassed by this game of dress up. His missing tooth and jaw added to my pity for him, his golden display case resembling a gilded cage for this once rebelliously romantic saint.
John the Baptist, San Silvestro in Capite
Chopped off by order of King Herod Antipas after a night of drinking, the location of John the Baptist’s true head is claimed by seven places around the world. The church itself is enjoyable enough though, decorated in paintings of decapitations, assassinations, and suffering saints.
I found John in a blindingly white room off to the side and was terrified by what I saw. This particular head is mummified, with a black stone-like cloth tightly covering every inch of his skull and its tilt turning a missing jaw into a permanent scream. The glass case that covers him reflects a nearby red candle’s glow out from his eye sockets (at certain angles) and I was convinced those covered holes could still somehow see me. Where those floor to ceiling bars put there to keep us out, or John the Baptist in?
Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccino
Feng shui meets the macabre in this church’s unique crypt. In 1631, to save space, bodies were exhumed and, for some unknown reason, put up on the walls instead of in containers. There are entire walls filled with skulls carefully stacked upon each other, creating sturdy columns, cute arches, and delightful centerpieces to pelvis star designs. Some even have the skin left on to help you lose your appetite that much easier.
My favorite room was made clear when I was reminded of the true purpose of an idle cranium: the classic skull and crossbones. This piratey design was found in several places throughout the third area of the crypt, adorning the walls above a few lucky (deceased) monks.
For such a dark theme, the monks really did a good job of keeping the place cheerful, with ribcage flowers, hipbone fans, countless vertebrae lining the walls, and a jolly message at the end “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”
David With The Head Of Goliath, Villa Borghese
The last stop on our dark tour of craniums is the master of light and dark himself: Caravaggio. He seemed to have a clear grasp of what an actual decapitated head looks like for this painting, making it the perfect end for those that get lightheaded when viewing the dead. In a twisted decision by a depressed artist, Caravaggio painted the head in his own likeness as David sadly looks on. This was a point in Caravaggio’s life when he was desperate to go back to Rome, the city he was exiled from for killing a man, a feeling shown in this somber painting.
This is only a small sampling of the captivatingly decapitated heads to be found in Rome. And whether your visit takes you to catacombs or crypts, you can always rest in peace knowing that if the dead become a bit overwhelming, your exit to the world of the living is always near.
Saint Valentine, Santa Maria in Cosmedin
I decided to visit this lovely saint’s decapitated cranium on Valentine’s Day, but was surprised to find the 4th century church nearly empty, even though a line wrapped around the building for pictures with its other famous attraction: La Bocca della Verità, or The Mouth of Truth. I guess some people have better things to do on the day of love than visit the dead.
Saint Valentine has got to be the tiniest head I have ever seen, living or departed. It seems at some point a creative monk thought it would be a good idea to shove some red roses on him, almost like Jesus’ crown of thorns. Poor Valentine sadly gazes out at his audience, completely embarrassed by this game of dress up. His missing tooth and jaw added to my pity for him, his golden display case resembling a gilded cage for this once rebelliously romantic saint.
John the Baptist, San Silvestro in Capite
Chopped off by order of King Herod Antipas after a night of drinking, the location of John the Baptist’s true head is claimed by seven places around the world. The church itself is enjoyable enough though, decorated in paintings of decapitations, assassinations, and suffering saints.
I found John in a blindingly white room off to the side and was terrified by what I saw. This particular head is mummified, with a black stone-like cloth tightly covering every inch of his skull and its tilt turning a missing jaw into a permanent scream. The glass case that covers him reflects a nearby red candle’s glow out from his eye sockets (at certain angles) and I was convinced those covered holes could still somehow see me. Where those floor to ceiling bars put there to keep us out, or John the Baptist in?
Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccino
Feng shui meets the macabre in this church’s unique crypt. In 1631, to save space, bodies were exhumed and, for some unknown reason, put up on the walls instead of in containers. There are entire walls filled with skulls carefully stacked upon each other, creating sturdy columns, cute arches, and delightful centerpieces to pelvis star designs. Some even have the skin left on to help you lose your appetite that much easier.
My favorite room was made clear when I was reminded of the true purpose of an idle cranium: the classic skull and crossbones. This piratey design was found in several places throughout the third area of the crypt, adorning the walls above a few lucky (deceased) monks.
For such a dark theme, the monks really did a good job of keeping the place cheerful, with ribcage flowers, hipbone fans, countless vertebrae lining the walls, and a jolly message at the end “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”
David With The Head Of Goliath, Villa Borghese
The last stop on our dark tour of craniums is the master of light and dark himself: Caravaggio. He seemed to have a clear grasp of what an actual decapitated head looks like for this painting, making it the perfect end for those that get lightheaded when viewing the dead. In a twisted decision by a depressed artist, Caravaggio painted the head in his own likeness as David sadly looks on. This was a point in Caravaggio’s life when he was desperate to go back to Rome, the city he was exiled from for killing a man, a feeling shown in this somber painting.
This is only a small sampling of the captivatingly decapitated heads to be found in Rome. And whether your visit takes you to catacombs or crypts, you can always rest in peace knowing that if the dead become a bit overwhelming, your exit to the world of the living is always near.
A Writing Assignment - Roman (Budget) Holiday
Movies show a lot of unbelievable things: talking frogs, light saber battles, zombies, getting by in modern Rome with only $1.50? Now that’s unbelievable.
When Princess Ann, played by Audrey Hepburn, leaves Joe Bradley’s apartment, Gregory Peck, in Roman Holiday, he lends her 1,000 lire to get by with, telling her it’s worth only $1.50 American. The sheltered princess is dazzled by the energetic street life of Rome and decides to make some purchases. As a budget conscious student living in Rome, I was amazed (and jealous) at just how far her money went. A pair of sandals, a gelato, and a haircut later and she still had change in her pocket, though sadly not enough for a bunch of flowers.
Today in Rome $1.50 would translate to 1.12 euro, a far cry from the lire of 1953. While at best this could buy you an extremely small slick of pizza or two fresh oranges at the supermarket, let’s be more realistic. Due to inflation $1.50 in 1953 is actually $11.74 in 2010. Italy has since turned to the euro, meaning a modern day Princess Ann would be traveling with about 8.70 euro in all, still not enough for her mini shopping spree.
So how can the average budget minded individual shop in Rome without help from Hollywood royalty? Well assuming you’ve found an apartment to sleep in, as Princess Ann has, you’ll still be needing food. Italy is famous for its culinary prowess but after seeing a menu you just might lose your appetite. The trick is to look for small restaurants with a simple look about them. Rule of thumb: the nicer the interior, the higher the bill. Wander through the streets of Rome, it’s a beautiful city and looking is free. Eventually you’ll walk by a cozy hole in the wall eatery that will serve up some delicious pasta at a price you’ll eat right up. Of course, if you’re aiming at sustenance instead of gourmet, there is always the supermarket. Expect to see bigger price differences than in America: a can of soda can cost fifty cents compared to three euro at a restaurant or café.
Princess Ann’s stylish shoes from a street vendor can also be yours if you know where to look. Take a note from the movie and walk right by the expensive stores to outdoor markets like in San Giovanni, conveniently located next to a metro stop if you don’t like walking. In the neighborhood by the ancient Catholic basilica there is a daily market (closed Sundays) open from around eight in the morning to two in the afternoon outside of the park on Via Sannio. Here you can find everything from shoes to luggage and also enjoy the unforgettable experience of haggling with someone who may or may not know English. Interestingly this worked to my advantage when I was able to buy sunglasses at a third of the original price because my confused stare was taken for cool determination.
Last out of Ann’s list was exchanging her long locks for a swanky new haircut. While I am told the average price for a normal haircut in Rome is about fifteen euro, I have never had my capelli styled while abroad. Maybe one day when I’m more confident in my language abilities. But for the more adventurous types I’ve heard that all salons, large and small, have a good sense of pride in their work, hopefully eliminating the chance of the dreaded crooked cut from budget salons in America, something Princess Ann’s barber wouldn’t dream of doing. Rome is a very stylish city, so it could be worth it to update your ‘do while taking a moment to rest inside, though this will instantly put you over the coveted Princess Ann budget.
Luckily many things to do in Rome are free and just walking through the city can be visually rewarding. While things are extraordinarily more expensive now, there is a lot the movie world of Roman Holiday can teach us. Princess Ann experiences Rome as only a local could, immersing herself in a Roman world filled with cafes and Vespas, a pleasurable change from the hurried life of an average tourist. And while a vendor would probably never part with a flower for free, the people, the famous sites, and the energy present throughout is enough to leave you feeling overwhelmingly happy by the end of the day.
When Princess Ann, played by Audrey Hepburn, leaves Joe Bradley’s apartment, Gregory Peck, in Roman Holiday, he lends her 1,000 lire to get by with, telling her it’s worth only $1.50 American. The sheltered princess is dazzled by the energetic street life of Rome and decides to make some purchases. As a budget conscious student living in Rome, I was amazed (and jealous) at just how far her money went. A pair of sandals, a gelato, and a haircut later and she still had change in her pocket, though sadly not enough for a bunch of flowers.
Today in Rome $1.50 would translate to 1.12 euro, a far cry from the lire of 1953. While at best this could buy you an extremely small slick of pizza or two fresh oranges at the supermarket, let’s be more realistic. Due to inflation $1.50 in 1953 is actually $11.74 in 2010. Italy has since turned to the euro, meaning a modern day Princess Ann would be traveling with about 8.70 euro in all, still not enough for her mini shopping spree.
So how can the average budget minded individual shop in Rome without help from Hollywood royalty? Well assuming you’ve found an apartment to sleep in, as Princess Ann has, you’ll still be needing food. Italy is famous for its culinary prowess but after seeing a menu you just might lose your appetite. The trick is to look for small restaurants with a simple look about them. Rule of thumb: the nicer the interior, the higher the bill. Wander through the streets of Rome, it’s a beautiful city and looking is free. Eventually you’ll walk by a cozy hole in the wall eatery that will serve up some delicious pasta at a price you’ll eat right up. Of course, if you’re aiming at sustenance instead of gourmet, there is always the supermarket. Expect to see bigger price differences than in America: a can of soda can cost fifty cents compared to three euro at a restaurant or café.
Princess Ann’s stylish shoes from a street vendor can also be yours if you know where to look. Take a note from the movie and walk right by the expensive stores to outdoor markets like in San Giovanni, conveniently located next to a metro stop if you don’t like walking. In the neighborhood by the ancient Catholic basilica there is a daily market (closed Sundays) open from around eight in the morning to two in the afternoon outside of the park on Via Sannio. Here you can find everything from shoes to luggage and also enjoy the unforgettable experience of haggling with someone who may or may not know English. Interestingly this worked to my advantage when I was able to buy sunglasses at a third of the original price because my confused stare was taken for cool determination.
Last out of Ann’s list was exchanging her long locks for a swanky new haircut. While I am told the average price for a normal haircut in Rome is about fifteen euro, I have never had my capelli styled while abroad. Maybe one day when I’m more confident in my language abilities. But for the more adventurous types I’ve heard that all salons, large and small, have a good sense of pride in their work, hopefully eliminating the chance of the dreaded crooked cut from budget salons in America, something Princess Ann’s barber wouldn’t dream of doing. Rome is a very stylish city, so it could be worth it to update your ‘do while taking a moment to rest inside, though this will instantly put you over the coveted Princess Ann budget.
Luckily many things to do in Rome are free and just walking through the city can be visually rewarding. While things are extraordinarily more expensive now, there is a lot the movie world of Roman Holiday can teach us. Princess Ann experiences Rome as only a local could, immersing herself in a Roman world filled with cafes and Vespas, a pleasurable change from the hurried life of an average tourist. And while a vendor would probably never part with a flower for free, the people, the famous sites, and the energy present throughout is enough to leave you feeling overwhelmingly happy by the end of the day.
A Writing Assignment - Acting Silly In Portugal
You ever say a word or sentence and instantly know you’ve said something stupid? The moment of realization is always a millisecond too late, as everyone is suddenly paying attention, and everyone catches and repeats the unfortunate remark.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
I usually think before I speak, but when asked if I wanted to travel for Spring Break my mouth blurted out “yes!” The last trip I had was to Boston, with my constant companion: homework. I’ve never had a trip where I didn’t bring along the extra baggage of a to-do list, and I desperately needed one.
I didn’t leave Portugal with a deeper understanding of something. I didn’t learn anything, I didn’t see connections, and I didn’t gain insight into myself. I had the first ever break in my life, and it was fun.
Three of us journeyed together to Cascais, Portugal, where we spent about a week relaxing and doing nothing, saying and doing whatever popped into our mind.
“Sinestra.”
Actually it’s Sintra, but that didn’t stop me from incorrectly asking baffled locals about it. By the time I got the actual name down, my friends made sure confuse me again.
Sintra is a historic wonderland of castles and shops, but what interested me most was Quinta da Regalerira, an estate created by an eccentric millionaire in the late 1800’s. It turned out he basically created a Discovery Zone for adults complete with a secret laboratory, trick mirror floors, and underground tunnels in the maze-like park. We were little kids again: scaring each other, searching for caves, climbing up medieval-looking towers. By the time we saw everything here it was well past closing time and we had to head back down to Cascais, the foreboding Moore Castle on the top of the mountain would have to wait for another trip.
“Do They Shoot Each Other?”
My friend Maggie posed this question while we watched a sporting event on television. Skiers raced cross country while stopping to shoot targets, and unfortunately Maggie thought targets might have a more menacing definition than a bullseye.
Television took up a lot of my time in Portugal. Comfy beds mixed with a plasma television tuned to American broadcasts were the perfect recipe for many lazily spent hours as the Cascais weather turned sour. Early on it was realized that this was not a vacation to be spent running from place to place, we chose the beach because we wanted relaxation, and as long as the stress of studying abroad in Rome was forgotten, the trip was a success. Silent hours, talkative ones, even hours spent snacking on groceries instead of eating out, the hotel room became a sanctuary we could return to at any time without the guilt of missing some must-see attraction.
“I Thought There Was a Roller Coaster.”
Having gone the whole week without a memorable verbal error, Allie joined the ranks while looking through a pamphlet at a Lisbon hostel. The three musketeers were now down to two as we spent our last night in a new city. The pamphlet in question was about Go Cars, a fantastic way to announce to the world you were a tourist, and the cover featured a giant city-wide roller coast that my friend momentarily took for real.
We wanted to be tourists. We wanted to see the sights. And we wanted a talking Go Car. Luckily, all three dreams came true in the form of a bright yellow three wheeled scooter/car that I had to sign my life away to obtain after I chose to not purchase the auto insurance. The appeal is its internal GPS that triggers recordings telling you where to turn and the history behind what you are seeing. An hour or so after angering our car with wrong turns, we received the silent treatment from her after her wiring came loose. Either way, it was well worth the money to speed through Lisbon at half the height of the cars surrounding me.
Now I’m back in Rome. This morning I woke up in Lisbon at seven o’clock, went from taxi to plane to bus to metro to elevator, and hauled my luggage back into my room to unpack, learning just how unfortunate it is to combine European daylight savings time with a Portugal to Italy time zone difference. I thought about my Spring Break all the way back to Rome, trying to find some hidden jewel or life changing message behind everything I’ve done in the past week, but the first thing I keep thinking about is all the fun I had talking, listening, and goofing around with my American friends in Portugal.
A Writing Assignment (aka homework) - Wandering
Walking through Rome is always a tale of discovery. The roads twist and turn with the flow of the city, losing you in its comforting maze until suddenly it opens up and you are awestruck, faced with a bright piazza containing some grand fountain. This could never happen in the United States. This couldn’t happen anywhere else in Europe. Only in Rome do the streets suck you in and lose you, hiding its treasures within a labyrinth of city life.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Most of the days I’ve been here have been gloomy and full of rain, until suddenly, at the end of February, the clouds opened up and warm breeze brought out the people of Rome. It was amazing to see how quick a city could change: windows opened, clotheslines were filled, and every eatery was empty as people opted to eat outside in the sun. I had wandered through Rome before, feeling a little like a tourist my first two weeks as every monument and fountain surprised and delighted me, though I couldn’t help but panic a little when I somehow saw the Pantheon three times on the way home.
Thankfully now I can walk a little slower through the streets, vaguely knowing which way my apartment is and becoming familiar with the main roads. Each landmark is a polite reminder of the area I’m in, telling me which way I need to go if I’m lost, or where not to turn if I feel like exploring a little more.
I always prefer to take side streets over the larger roads when I’m not in a hurry. Crowds there are quick, having no interest in their stunning surroundings, but keeping their goal in mind as they charge at you. People don’t stay to a certain side and they always have more of a right to the path then you do, playing a game of chicken as a group walks straight at you till you are forced to jump off the sidewalk, narrowly missing a speeding car.
And the city changes throughout the day too. A nice stroll in the morning is the ideal time to see the ancient landmarks of the city. As you walk down Via dei Fori Imperiali the area is practically deserted and people are even able to jog in the streets. The sun basks everything in an orange glow making even the ordinary beautiful. On the weekend the silence is only broken by a few birds or a car slowly driving by while the city sleeps in.
The middle of the day brings out all the tourists, crowding areas as Romans push past the stationary people studying maps. This is the best time to visit the countless churches of the city. It is always a relief to walk into one as the cool darkness covers you and the chaos of the city is shut out the moment the door closes. These are proud places, each one adorned with beautiful sculptures and paintings, sacred relics hidden away in niches and a grand nave and apse designed to take the breath away of everyone who enters, religious or not. Even if I have a destination in mind, it’s always nice to step inside for a moment to relax when the crowds and twisting streets become too much.
At night quiet piazzas turn into noisy hangouts as people crowd areas like Trastevere, populating hip bars and cozy restaurants and crowding the streets as they yell across to one another and vendors fight to sell their wares. As I walk through the brisk night air the warm smell of roasted chestnuts on every corner near Spagna reminds me of Christmas songs and suddenly the vendors seem so out of place without snow. A nighttime stroll becomes more about the people as light allows darkness to fade away the tops of buildings and statues and chooses instead to illuminate a person twirling in the distance.
It’s easy to lose track of time when walking through Rome. The constant changes keep your interest as a street you’ve been to earlier in the day is transformed when you find it again. It’s fascinating but exhausting, and by the time night falls you realize just how badly your feet hurt from the uneven cobblestone. It’s only then that I realize I should start heading back to the predictability of my apartment, as I see Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano in the distance, the last reminder that I’m on my way home.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Today I Saw The Pope/Why Nuns Hate Me
Today I went to Holy Thursday Mass for the last supper lead by Pope Benedict XVI as a part of Holy Week. It was held across the street from my apartment in San Giovanni in Lateran. Now, I’m not a religious person and I’ve never followed the Catholic faith except for educational purposes in high school. I’m agnostic, because you never can be too sure about the world, but if there is a god, I certainly don’t believe in all the ceremonious aspects of worship for it.
However, the point is, I heard the Pope was comin’ and I wanted to go.
The group I was going with decided it was best to go and wait around three, since it started at five thirty. Sounded smart, right? Wrong. Ends up we weren’t getting past the guards unless we had tickets. A kindly gentleman informed us he got his three months ago, and there was no chance we were getting in. However, we could try the American tourist office, but they probably wouldn’t have any left either.
Game plan: I rushed back to the apartment to make some calls to the Vatican and Google the tourist office while the rest questioned the crowd for extra tickets.
Result: there is no such thing as an American tourist office in Rome and the Vatican doesn’t like answering their phone, or advertising the fact that you actually need tickets for today’s mass on their webpage. Luckily, the rest had more luck. After a nun changed her mind about giving them her extra tickets, a lady with stacks of tickets in her hands gave us seven, the perfect amount to get us all in.
Now, it is a well known fact that the Italians don’t believe in lines. They are aware of them, and draw pictures of people lining up nicely in their language books, but they never practice the idea. This meant that getting into San Giovanni was harder then getting to the front of a mosh pit and the people were certainly meaner, going so far as to push tiny nuns out of the way. But somehow we made it inside, and after more pushing and shoving, managed to get seats in the center section of the church. We were all split up, as a priest picked people out of the crowd and showed them to open spots. I was placed next to a group of nuns and priests-in-training all the way in the back of the basilica. Lovely.
I’ve never been to mass. I also can’t read Italian. I found out later that at some point the Pope said all Catholics are called upon a “constant examination of conscience”, which was his indirect way of mentioning the recent church scandals. But other than that I had absolutely no clue what was going on and the guide booklet they gave me was absolutely no help at all.
A Confused Guide to Mass:
Did you know there was a choir? Yes, apparently they are hidden very well from your vision behind a column, so be prepared to freak out as haunting music suddenly fills the basilica. All the words are in the guide booklet, but you won’t know that until the nun elbows you in the ribs. Be prepared to sing along when the red letters say “L’assemblea ripete” or the nuns will become more focused on you than the Mass.
Singing, chanting, singing, talking, singing, chanting, talking, singing, stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down. This goes on for a while, maybe an hour, until the Pope decides it’s time to speak up. Unfortunately whatever it is he says will fall on deaf ears because it’s not translated and isn’t even in the guide booklet. It must have been good though, because people begin shuffling around in their seats, forming the cross on themselves, and looking to the heavens passionately. Good for you Pope, way to rock it.
Suddenly everyone gets to their knees and you follow suit. It’s time for prayer, so rest your hands on the chair in front of you, tilt your head ever so slightly down, and utilize the time to get a good look at the church and the cardinals, as this is the only time that tall guy in front of you is shorter.
What’s this? Greek? Yup, just when some of the Latin starts to make sense they decide to switch it up a little, keeping you on your toes. Cue fantasizing about being a badass secret agent in Rome. And now for a new trick: English! Yup, suddenly English pours out of the speakers explaining that the collection is going around and that the Pope asks it to be donated to rebuilding a church in Haiti. A long silence passes as the collected envelopes are presented to him. Happily, Mass continues on, this time with a complicated dance of a group of priests switching places at the podium to say a very short paragraph in their native language.
English: For all Priests, ministers of Christ the teacher, priest, and pastor: that, by their service, they might build up the People of God, which is the Church, into a holy temple of the Spirit.
It’s said in an Irish accent, and I’m not quite sure what he meant by it, but it was very relieving to understand words for once.
We go back to our old routine of chanting, talking, and singing, with some shuffling of the Vatican crew every once in a while for some reason. At one point the Pope walks to twelve priests, ceremoniously washing their feet, probably as a sign of humility or something to do with the last supper.
until we come to Communion, which you have totally forgotten exists. Old men dressed in white shuffle down the fenced off center aisle to give the entire audience a wafer. What does it taste like? Should you get one? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, you’re not Catholic, so just calmly sit down and---woa! Apparently that nun next to you doesn’t think that’s a good idea and she certainly won’t take the whole “seriously, I’m NOT Christian” excuse for an answer. She shoves you right up to the front and pushes you till you open your mouth, glaring back at her. The priest asks a question involving Jesus and puts the wafer in your mouth, wait, did you just accept Jesus or something? That doesn’t matter right now, because the wafer tastes god awful! Swallow it quick as you stumble back to your chair.
The chorus starts up again followed by more prayer. Note: NEVER wear a dress and tights to Mass. The floor is marble and so is freezing and hard on the knees. It’s okay to give up at some point though, because the next prayer is two pages long and your reputation with the nuns can’t get much worse.
Bells ring out for a good five minutes. It’s hard to tell what to do here, or what it all means as everyone is staring ahead, stoic.
Finally, the assembly up front rises as a golden cross is carried forth. They form a line and follow it down the steps and to a room at the far left. You’re supposed to be singing during this, but barely anyone is as a massive scramble for cellphones and cameras ensues. Don’t worry, you’ll know that tiny blur amongst the crowd in your picture was the Pope. Besides, who needs clear close photography when there is Photoshop?
People begin to leave and half is nearly out the door when the procession appears again, heading to the door on the right. Luckily you’ve figured out enough Italian to read the part of the guide booklet informing you of this maneuver and have moved forward in the church to get a good look. Ends up the popester is a rather short fellow though, but at least you got a good look at the random golden umbrella that oddly follows him around. Success.
However, the point is, I heard the Pope was comin’ and I wanted to go.
The group I was going with decided it was best to go and wait around three, since it started at five thirty. Sounded smart, right? Wrong. Ends up we weren’t getting past the guards unless we had tickets. A kindly gentleman informed us he got his three months ago, and there was no chance we were getting in. However, we could try the American tourist office, but they probably wouldn’t have any left either.
Game plan: I rushed back to the apartment to make some calls to the Vatican and Google the tourist office while the rest questioned the crowd for extra tickets.
Result: there is no such thing as an American tourist office in Rome and the Vatican doesn’t like answering their phone, or advertising the fact that you actually need tickets for today’s mass on their webpage. Luckily, the rest had more luck. After a nun changed her mind about giving them her extra tickets, a lady with stacks of tickets in her hands gave us seven, the perfect amount to get us all in.
Now, it is a well known fact that the Italians don’t believe in lines. They are aware of them, and draw pictures of people lining up nicely in their language books, but they never practice the idea. This meant that getting into San Giovanni was harder then getting to the front of a mosh pit and the people were certainly meaner, going so far as to push tiny nuns out of the way. But somehow we made it inside, and after more pushing and shoving, managed to get seats in the center section of the church. We were all split up, as a priest picked people out of the crowd and showed them to open spots. I was placed next to a group of nuns and priests-in-training all the way in the back of the basilica. Lovely.
I’ve never been to mass. I also can’t read Italian. I found out later that at some point the Pope said all Catholics are called upon a “constant examination of conscience”, which was his indirect way of mentioning the recent church scandals. But other than that I had absolutely no clue what was going on and the guide booklet they gave me was absolutely no help at all.
A Confused Guide to Mass:
Did you know there was a choir? Yes, apparently they are hidden very well from your vision behind a column, so be prepared to freak out as haunting music suddenly fills the basilica. All the words are in the guide booklet, but you won’t know that until the nun elbows you in the ribs. Be prepared to sing along when the red letters say “L’assemblea ripete” or the nuns will become more focused on you than the Mass.
Singing, chanting, singing, talking, singing, chanting, talking, singing, stand up, sit down, stand up, sit down. This goes on for a while, maybe an hour, until the Pope decides it’s time to speak up. Unfortunately whatever it is he says will fall on deaf ears because it’s not translated and isn’t even in the guide booklet. It must have been good though, because people begin shuffling around in their seats, forming the cross on themselves, and looking to the heavens passionately. Good for you Pope, way to rock it.
Suddenly everyone gets to their knees and you follow suit. It’s time for prayer, so rest your hands on the chair in front of you, tilt your head ever so slightly down, and utilize the time to get a good look at the church and the cardinals, as this is the only time that tall guy in front of you is shorter.
What’s this? Greek? Yup, just when some of the Latin starts to make sense they decide to switch it up a little, keeping you on your toes. Cue fantasizing about being a badass secret agent in Rome. And now for a new trick: English! Yup, suddenly English pours out of the speakers explaining that the collection is going around and that the Pope asks it to be donated to rebuilding a church in Haiti. A long silence passes as the collected envelopes are presented to him. Happily, Mass continues on, this time with a complicated dance of a group of priests switching places at the podium to say a very short paragraph in their native language.
English: For all Priests, ministers of Christ the teacher, priest, and pastor: that, by their service, they might build up the People of God, which is the Church, into a holy temple of the Spirit.
It’s said in an Irish accent, and I’m not quite sure what he meant by it, but it was very relieving to understand words for once.
We go back to our old routine of chanting, talking, and singing, with some shuffling of the Vatican crew every once in a while for some reason. At one point the Pope walks to twelve priests, ceremoniously washing their feet, probably as a sign of humility or something to do with the last supper.
until we come to Communion, which you have totally forgotten exists. Old men dressed in white shuffle down the fenced off center aisle to give the entire audience a wafer. What does it taste like? Should you get one? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, you’re not Catholic, so just calmly sit down and---woa! Apparently that nun next to you doesn’t think that’s a good idea and she certainly won’t take the whole “seriously, I’m NOT Christian” excuse for an answer. She shoves you right up to the front and pushes you till you open your mouth, glaring back at her. The priest asks a question involving Jesus and puts the wafer in your mouth, wait, did you just accept Jesus or something? That doesn’t matter right now, because the wafer tastes god awful! Swallow it quick as you stumble back to your chair.
The chorus starts up again followed by more prayer. Note: NEVER wear a dress and tights to Mass. The floor is marble and so is freezing and hard on the knees. It’s okay to give up at some point though, because the next prayer is two pages long and your reputation with the nuns can’t get much worse.
Bells ring out for a good five minutes. It’s hard to tell what to do here, or what it all means as everyone is staring ahead, stoic.
Finally, the assembly up front rises as a golden cross is carried forth. They form a line and follow it down the steps and to a room at the far left. You’re supposed to be singing during this, but barely anyone is as a massive scramble for cellphones and cameras ensues. Don’t worry, you’ll know that tiny blur amongst the crowd in your picture was the Pope. Besides, who needs clear close photography when there is Photoshop?
People begin to leave and half is nearly out the door when the procession appears again, heading to the door on the right. Luckily you’ve figured out enough Italian to read the part of the guide booklet informing you of this maneuver and have moved forward in the church to get a good look. Ends up the popester is a rather short fellow though, but at least you got a good look at the random golden umbrella that oddly follows him around. Success.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
