The Day of Wandering

Today we drift through Rome: swirls of mist, wandering through the alleyways. We are grounded only by the cries of pain emanating from below: the cries of feet unused to the coarse manners of jeering cobblestones, which take pleasure in our pain. Yet, even they cannot drag us to their level; we soar too high, our wings just a finger-width away from their desperate grasp. We soar, and yet our day began quite simply.

The same kind receptionist, who greeted us yesterday, pointed us to our breakfast caffé. Our nonexistent knowledge of Italian joined forces with the exclusive menu, the first we’ve encountered which did not offer English, to reject us. I keep glancing at the menu, somehow hoping that it would suddenly translate itself, or grant me the ability to decipher the items listed. No such luck there. However, the friendly man behind the counter took pity on our poor souls. We nodded along to the phrases he offered, relieved at the close call. In this manner, we ordered: a chocolate croissant for the each of us, cappuccino for Zoe, and orange juice for me.

We set off for Piazza dei Argentino, in search of someone who would sell us a journal. Instead, we found a bookstore housing a host of colorful postcards and cute greeting cards. With an amalgam of French words at Zoe’s disposal and Spanish words at mine, we managed to decipher the ultimate message given by most of the cards, but the details remained fuzzy. No matter. Like a child, I chose the cards with the most appealing pictures and purchased them. We thanked whoever had invented registers that display prices numerically on screens the customer could view, before exiting our little book haven.

With the city bustling all around, four ruins plant themselves haughtily in the very center of the Piazza. It is their right, for they have outlasted every mortal they have encountered thus far, and by this time they are clever enough to know they will outlast us as well. We pay them a visit. They are beautiful and bizarre; the juxtaposition of the four temples’ remains against the lively city is almost surreal. A tall trio of columns is the sole survivor of the family to which it once belonged. The columns stare as we pass by, challenging us to mock their loss. Instead, we capture their immense pride on the disposable digital film we carry. Their pride is justified, for the dignified columns are truly beautiful.

We drift across the ruins to view them from a new angle, and discover multitudes of cats calling the ruins home. They are oblivious to exclamations from passing viewers, caring only for their mutual agreement with the former temples. They keep the stones company, and the stones offer them housing. It is not a new role; cats have been guardians of temples for ages. We smile at them.

Streets and cobblestones and caffés and shops pass us by. We are lost, but what adventurer knew his way? Certainly the ones who did plan never found the right path. Fate does not favor those who love their own plans better than hers. Dante did not plan the wanderings of his exile, and yet he trekked through Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory just as surely as Columbus discovered the Americas instead of spicy India. So we let fate guide us. We are nearing our accidental destination.

A river. The foul stench of filthy steps clogs our nostrils, but we gleefully ignore it as we dash past the steps. As we near the rush of water, I can hear the distant roar of the river’s ironic land guardian, the vicious feline whose name sounds so like the river it defends. We are allowed to pass. Thus, we reach the bank of the river. A quick review of history sparks an inaccuracy: we mistake the Tiber for the Tigris, mother to human civilization. This is where everything began! But no, it is merely a deceptive river, so desperate for attention that it asks for a name just like its idol, like a young girl who dresses like her older sister.

Men fish in the river as we pass. The beginnings of an island loom ahead; the tiny piece of land is host to the sick. Here, lives are both saved and destroyed. We capture ourselves with the island, yet again in our erasable film. We continue. This time, the choice of a new staircase yields favorable results: the aroma is pleasant as we head back up toward civilization.

The Teatro di Marcello is nearby; Zoe can sense it. We pick our moment to cross the busy road. But where is the theatre? We drift between buildings. Ah, it was here all along. The ancient columns and arches are mere feet away, maybe inches. Oh, but those measurements should be saved for home. Here, they are not inches, but centimeters and decimeters away. If we reach across the barrier, we can almost touch the stone. I am almost afraid to try; who would disturb the broken body of a stone giant who rests peacefully through centuries of human strife? We do not walk now, but float instead through the ruins of the theatre. All too soon, the magnificent structures come to an end, and we wave our mental farewell before setting off once again.

We soar through streets, hungering for more marble beauty. The city heeds our call. We stumble across a gargantuan structure alongside a mini piazza. The steps to the piazza are astonishingly large, and structurally singular. They are slanted, creating a literal paradox of sorts: each step forward feels like a step back. We climb the nonsensical staircase. It is framed by giant statues, each of which crushes a deceptively charming-looking ship maiden crying out, imprisoned by sailors’ cruelty on a ship’s bow.

We pass the maidens, unable to silence their cries, until we reach the Piazza. Straight ahead, a fountain bursts to life, flanked by once-identical statues, mirroring one another in the symmetry so beloved by the Romans. Now, one is devoid of the intricate horn, while the other blows sweet music through its still-intact instrument. Pausing only to capture their beauty, we soon discover a museum; it is the Musei Capitolini. It opens with a mid-sized courtyard, surrounded by strange, marvelous statues. We are almost afraid to approach the statues; there is no rope barrier separating us from the ancient marble, but two decades of museum training yell, “no closer!” Cautiously, we watch as others approach the statues, some nonchalantly, some with just as much hesitation. A nearby museum employee makes no attempt to stop anyone. Inspired, Zoe kisses a gigantic lone foot; I hug an enormous hand. The beautiful courtyard waves us farewell; we would love to stay but there is so much more to see.

We glide through hallways upon hallways filled with marble. Some are heroes and some are emperors, while others are gods or goddesses. Some we know, but most we do not recognize. Hercules gives us a weary nod, back from one of his twelve tasks. Athena glares down at us from her glorious suit of armor, and Marcus Aurelius pays no attention as he passes us by on horseback. We watch as the she-wolf gives her own life-blood to Remus and Romulus, so that they may go on to found the city of Rome. We listen to Socrates as he orates to a raging crowd of indignant philosophers. They cannot come to an agreement. The First Christian Emperor’s cloudy, enlarged eyes, a symbol of his closeness to Heaven, stare just above us. We pass through rooms and rooms of artwork. One gigantic Pope Innocent judges us from his magnificent throne, while a Pope Urban mirrors him from the opposite wall. One is black marble, the other white marble. Both are equally imposing.

We slip out from under the popes’ collective gaze. We pass through an underground hallway and exit from the building opposite the entrance. The sun greets us with its familiar harshness as we step back out into the Piazza. We pause for one last moment to breathe in the splendor, before leaping back down the gigantic staircase. I consider what tragedies might occur on these slanted marble steps during the rain, and suddenly the sun seems friendlier.

Adjacent to the Piazza is another huge structure. It boasts its own daunting staircase, and possesses brilliant, gorgeous statues. Alas, it is under renovation. An entire front wall of beauty is smothered by a dreary tarp. Still, we take a deep breath and begin climbing the stairs. The view from the top is impressive. Then again, this begs the question: what isn’t impressive in Rome?

We have paid no heed to our stomachs thus far, but their angry rumbles command attention. Obediently, we search for food to satisfy their complaint. We stumble across an alleyway full of shops, and then a restaurant. Zoe orders a salad, and I ask for capricciosa, a pizza that sounds delectable. In addition to a host of familiar ingredients, it boasts egg slices. Our food arrives, and it looks just as delicious as the descriptions sounded. My skepticism regarding egg as a pizza topping melts when I try my first bite. All of the food here is amazing!

We finish our meal and walk back to the street full of tiny stores. Along the way, we discover a talented young artist displaying his small paintings for sale. We have already bought paintings from another artist, but his style is different. His attention to minute detail is incredible, and we cannot help but to buy two more paintings to bring home. He thanks us and we nod goodbye to him, before retracing our steps back down the Via del Corso. The shopping is excellent. We spend some time wandering in and out of the stores, before heading home.

Along the path back to the Locanda Senatorum, we discover a beautiful church in the midst of the bustling city. It is the Sant Ignazio di Loyola. Cautiously, we enter. It is with no regret, for the church boasts stunning vaulted ceilings, painted meticulously with religious imagery. I am delighted to come across a simple, wooden confession booth; it is the first I have ever seen. My mind wanders, and I wonder what kinds of confessions people have made here over the years. Years and centuries of sins confessed, and even more time spent in penance to wash away the transgressions.

In all of my wondering and wandering, I have almost forgotten that the church is not merely another spectacular tourist site; it is also a haven for the numerous Roman Catholics who live in or visit Rome. As I walk back toward the entrance, I pass several women. Some are in prayer, while others are standing before rows of tiny candles. They place their offering into the wooden box, then pick up a candle and use it to light other candles. After this ritual is complete, they bow their head in prayer, and make the sign of the cross with their nimble fingers. I try to watch unobtrusively, but suddenly, I feel like an intruder at this holy sanctuary. Zoe and I quietly slip back out the entrance, and head home.

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We will wake up for the sunset, we say, in thirty human minutes; but even angels fall. Fall, fall, fall into crisp white pillows, fluffy from the shed feathers of their cousins’ wings. Fall into a heavenly rest that only peace can awaken. And such is the draw of our sanctuary, for we lay down our wings as our lids envelop our last connection with this earthly world we visit. We lay down our wings, and all is well, for sleep is the fruit of heaven, and we, merely two girls who must stop and rest for a world that stops and rests for no one.