I quite like a lot of Spaniards and Spain in general, I can't lie. But the Spanish, like some flock of exotic birds can be spotted at great distances and are hard to deal with in close proximity. They travel in large, loud, singing groups that never sleep, and never surrender. Last night I had the great pleasure of sharing a wall with what sounded like a wedding party but was, in fact, only six of them. I'm glad I picked France.
Traveling, I've realized, is the greatest indicator of any personality trait you could wish to reveal about yourself or anyother person. How one feels about money, time, sleep, cleanliness, money, sex, fidelity, food, schedules, history, entitlement, respect, language, sharing, violation, strength, humor or any other tiny aspect of life is exposed the minute one sets foot out the door. Even whether or not one chooses to travel, how one does so and how often is a remarkable indicator. I am in some ways not the person I thought I was. In other ways I rule the faces off of most people, dominating them like a mighty titan with a semitar in one hand and a glorious map of the world in the other.
Yesterday, you may have noticed, I didn't make much noise about the state of the Roman world. This is not because I didn't want to but because adventure runs heavy in tiny, tiny canals.
Yesterday we visited St. Peter's Fortress of the Box (also known as a Basillica). Yes, the lòargest and most splendid church on the face of the earth features at it's core a tiny gold box full of what may or may not be bits and pieces of Peter. Without a doubt, it was the most splendid and remarkable building I have ever seen. The statues alone are enough to literally knock you off your feet (though you will promptly be yelled at for sitting by the staff). Veronica's shroud was my favorite but the others were equally mighty. The marble is like reality dipped in candy. The gold is whipped into a froth. Popes had better appreciate this.
If you ever go, remember that someone plastered every single one of those little tiles into place and then was promptly forgotten by time.
Michaelango's Pieta is also a shining example of divine beauty. It's easy to see why his contemporaries didn't believe that someone so young could carve something so almost translucent with beauty. Fortunately, I didn't cry this time.
Now... this is about the point where my travel companion's disappeared in search of the Vatican Museums (planned for tomorrow). We shall only say that in the time between now and then Erin McQ turned 21, Carrie went back to France on the five am train, Erin's wallet and camera were stolen (camera returned, wallet not) and the general hysteria of the day meant that Erin and I relaxed and hit the roman Zoo (read: Biopark).
It wasn't like I woke up expecting to meet my reservations at the Borghese Gallery with friends and then stay in an apartment for free insteading of paying for three more nights only to miss our reservations and have my friends LEAVE THE COUNTRY WITHOUT ME....
The Finnish have a saying for this I'm sure, but I don't know what it is...
Today, sleeping in a park, exploring the zoo, and accidently finding the museum that houses my favorite Caravagio of all time. And, oddly, one of Hans Holbein's famous portraits of Henry VIII in what used to be the palace of an important Italian family and is now the national art gallery. Go figure.
Essentially, Rome get's weirder but also better and better.
Tonight I will sleep the sleep of a million starry nights. Unless the Spaniards are in.
No comments:
Post a Comment