Day 7 - Roma

My half-success with the lingo at La Muracccia restaurant yesterday did not prevent me anticipating our trip to the capital with some trepidation. Most capitals should not be driven in, and as Rome was only 25 km away and there was a train station very close to us, the ten of us were going to embark on our adventure using public transport, with only one of our group confident with the language. There were also the many stories of pickpocketing that friends and relatives had told us with, at times, it seemed glee, relating their own tales as though they were anecdotes from the Second World War.

With this in mind, I started the trip armed simply with cash (if I was 'done' at least they wouldn't take my credit cards, and cash in a pocket is less noticeable than a bulky wallet), my mobile phone (I didn't want to get cut off from others in a big city if we went our separate ways) and my trusty phrase book, from which I had already rehearsed how to ask for ten return train tickets to Rome, even though it transpired that I wouldn't need to use the immortal phrase.

To the British traveler’s eternal surprise, the 0733 train arrived bang on time, and there was a further treat in store when we realised that Italian trains have an upper deck, which we duly ascended to like children on double decker buses. I indulged my habit of memorising the names of the stations we were traveling to and from, my experience with Emma in Paris still clear in my mind, and off we went.

The bus journey that awaited us on arrival at Roma Tiburtina was another way to get a taste of how normal Romans experience their city. It was a fairly lengthy journey that allowed us to see a great deal of the city without really grasping what we were seeing, and to be honest I was more engaged by two very different sights: the electronic display that flashed news and sport headlines, horoscopes, adverts, warnings to travelers about pickpockets (even the Italians were at it now) and the sequence of stops the bus was visiting was as much of a distraction as a television is in a pub, and secondly the bonkers Italian woman who sat in front of me, periodically turning on a transistor radio (I'm not being old-fashioned - it actually said "Transistor" on the casing) at a loud volume. This behaviour in itself is perhaps not grounds for her certification as insane, but she carried the aura about her that she was at least eccentric and something of a social pariah. It was quite strange that it was so easy to pick up on this (she didn't even smell or anything, which is usually a dead give-away), but the way she was regarded by her fellow travelers and the ticket inspectors was enough to provide an insight into this woman that had many parallel examples back home.

Eventually we arrived outside the walls of the Vatican, and our dismay was already welling up. Our plans to get into the city as early as possible so as to avoid the inevitable queues to see such sights as the Sistine ceiling had not had the desired outcome - it was only a few minutes past 9 in the morning and already the queue was, as the Americans might say, several blocks long. This is no exaggeration - it was a line of Olympic proportions, possibly a quarter of a mile in length. As one we bucked the cultural stereotype of the Brits being avid queuers (is that a word?) and decided that Michelangelo's altitudinous graffiti would have to wait, because we weren't going to.

Instead we walked a few hundred yards into St Peter's square. Now this was more like it. Here I was, standing in the place where countless millions of people had gathered to hear the words of the Pope, their chosen representative of God on Earth, one of the most powerful and controversial people on the planet. The venue provided for such an eminent individual was nothing short of spectacular. The dramatic, powerful, almost tyrannical architecture on such a massive scale breathed reality and immediacy into images I had only seen on TV or read about fairly recently in Dan Brown's Angels & Demons (a superior novel to The Da Vinci Code, available from all good booksellers). Most impressive of all was the illusionist layout of the square, detectable from the two points close to the centre which, when stood upon, made the rows of pillars fall completely behind each other, turning a complex site of intricate perspective and beauty into a bizarre and disorientating two-dimensional composition.

St Peter's is obviously a major draw not just for tourists but of course for Catholics across the world, and I wondered if the fairly recent death of Pope John Paul II had temporarily increased the place's attraction still further. It wasn't long before this was confirmed as we passed the checks on security and appropriate attire to enter the tombs of the Popes. We passed through passages lined with tombs and effigies of papas past, with cameras clicking and flashing, and visitors chatting, explaining and exclaiming. Until the flow of traffic slowed and we became aware of a hush up ahead broken only, and ironically, by a looped multilingual message: "This is a sacred place, please respect it with silence and refrain from flash photography" or words to that effect was the plea, and we found ourselves standing in front of the newest tomb, that of the Polish Pope himself. In fact, we were standing quite obtrusively before it, as the stream of sightseers filed directly between the tomb and a modest vigil at which people were kneeling and silently praying. I briefly wondered whether the priests still held a continuous vigil at this point, or whether it was simply to serve the Catholic pilgrims during business hours.

Nonetheless, a strange feeling came over me. Being a devout atheist, I was still impressed and somehow reassured by this devotion of the faithful, the muted pomp and circumstance. More than this, I too experienced an unfamiliar sense of awe at being in this spot. Here lay the apparently holy remains of a man considered by millions to be truly great. Perhaps the fact that John Paul became this powerful religious leader in the year I was born, lived and acted during the years of my life, and had died so recently was able to transcend the spiritual disagreements that we held. For better of worse, in some way, he was my Pope.

More examples of how symbols, signs, architecture and art can be used to both elevate and humble the human spirit were to be found as we entered the “business end” of St Peter's, the place of worship itself. Besides the scale and beauty of the building, us interlopers were watched from on high by dynamic, dramatic sculptures of previous Popes, saints, angels and martyrs, each Pope in particular rendered in an uncompromising pose of religious verve, as immovable in their devotion as the stone used to depict them. There was something heroic in these representations, as though they were real life superheroes,and none more so than the statue of Pious XII, whose flowing robes and outstretched hand, almost animated in its sword-like motion above us, led me to dub him, perhaps with less respect than he commanded when alive, "Action Pope." Even the little round spectacles that he wore, sculpted as carefully as his anatomical features, were not able to diminish his obvious stature, if you'll excuse the unintentional pun.

Surrounded on all sides, above and below, with ornamentation, embellishments, functioning artefacts of worship of such impressive, even aggressive beauty and grandeur, it was easy to understand how so many people can be awe-struck, inspired, humbled and even manipulated into a devotion that can reach fanatical levels, such was the assault on the senses and the careful, calculated way all of these sights carried the same message, at times overt, on other levels subliminal: "You are nothing. You are tiny, insignificant and powerless. Yet you are loved. Kneel before your God and his representatives on Earth, and do His (and their) bidding." Even if this bidding can sometimes appear distinctly unholy and anathema to the message of love peddled by the Christian faith.

The rest of the city was slightly disappointing in comparison. Clearly the Imperials Romans, as organised and innovative as they were, had not counted on two millennia of seemingly haphazard civic expansion. Unlike London, Paris and to a certain extent Dublin, walking through the streets of Rome doesn't provide the expansive vistas of its counterparts. You see Rome in small chunks, winding through side streets and come out into various piazzas one trek at a time. Other stops on our tour took in the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain and various squares, before finding a restaurant tucked away in one of the ubiquitous alleyways. These were impressive sights in themselves, but I am coming to the conclusion that this sightseeing business is actually quite tricky. Particularly when you don't have a guide to hand to explain what you are seeing, it is difficult to know exactly how to see it. I mean, do you just look at it? How do you look at it? Do you take a brief glimpse and then move on, or linger for as long as you can. To be honest, I tried many of these approaches in turn, and on lingering I tried very hard to take in as much as I possibly could, but without a context, I had trouble identifying what it was I was supposed to see. Fortunately, the beauty of many scenes was quite obvious, for others it was marveling at a feast of engineering, and actually being there is always preferable to simply seeing something in a picture. I guess at times I was expecting to actually feel something, and this was achieved in no small measure at St. Peter's, whereas at other times it was more a case of "Yep, it's amazing. Where can I get a coffee?" because I just felt as though there was nothing else I could take in and benefit from beyond the initial sight itself.

Don’t get me wrong, Rome was a fabulous spectacle that enriched my life by providing me with new experiences, and it did move me. It also allowed me to tick off another item on my Places to See Before I Die list. I am truly glad I went. It's just the ritual of sightseeing itself that I don't seem to be particularly good at. It clearly mobilises millions of people each year, and they seem quite satisfied with what they are doing and how they are doing it (perhaps there is a special secret manual they have all read). I am also worried about whether I am doing it properly.

We all returned safely and there is some talk of returning to resurrect the aborted Sistine Chapel visit. I am tempted, but I am in two minds. It does seem a cardinal sin not to see it when you have the opportunity, but surely life and this holiday are too short to go to the same place twice? There are other places to go, things to see...