I used to be a little enamored of graffiti, maybe because my two boys came of age as Shepard Fairey was gaining notoriety, maybe because the idea of leaving a mark, any mark, holds presumptive value. There’s rebellion in graffiti. There can be artistry.
But this trip changed my mind. Rome, especially, seemed dirtied and marred by graffiti. It was everywhere.
I came home two pounds lighter even though my carb count was sky high and every day included at least one serving of gelato. Speaks to quality of ingredients, I think. Well, and those 14,000 – 19,000 step count days!
I’m jumping around. Indulge me.
If I’d had more space in my luggage and more disposable dollars, I would have bought some pottery. It was bright, cheerful, and so evocative of the landscape that it would’ve been a nice memento. One cereal-sized bowl I picked up was priced at 65 Euros. Craft worthy of the price — just not for me that day.
I did treat myself to a cheap pair of earrings from L’Accadamie’s gift store.
I’ll end with a movie recommendation. We picked it out because most of it takes place in Rome. That’s the Castel Sant’Angelo. We crossed that bridge! Are those the Spanish Steps? Trevi Fountain with four people at its lip? Sure, a little movie conceit.
It happens to be an uplifting story about second chances — one of my favorite themes. Also, I don’t even know why but I love the actor Bill Nighy. Here he plays a wise soccer (er – football) coach to England’s Homeless World Cup team. Highly recommend, especially if you’ve spent the day reading about Alito and the Orange Menace.
PS forgive the repetition from earlier posts. I can hardly remember what I put in an Instagram story and what here and what nowhere at all, so I need to give myself permission to be repetitive!
Saint Peter’s Basilica (below) and our guide (above).
The dome is slightly smaller than the Pantheon’s.
Believe it be or not, I had seen Michelangelo’s Pieta before when it came to the New York World’s Fair. It says something about my mother that we went. For all our frequent trips to family in the city over the years, my parents never took us to the Bronx Zoo or the Statue of Liberty or FAO Schwartz. But we saw Michelangelo’s Pieta.
Setting up for Easter services. I gather it was a little more crowded than usual given the time of year.
Our second memorable meal was at a tiny place down a little alley that we just happed upon. Boy, what Italians do with artichokes! I’m gonna have to up my game in future.
Palm Sunday in Rome — we ought to go to Mass, right? How to find a Catholic Church? Just kidding. Every block has one, maybe two, although it isn’t always easy to tell. “It’s either a church or a luggage store,” K quips to my pointing. We enter a building. No empty seats. Mass already in progress. For a pedestrian church, it is spectacular: walls and ceilings lavishly painted, gilt-raised frames, and a beautifully tiled floor. The Saints approve. But we exit anyhow, the blessed water on the brow not yet dry. Turns out I’m a 90-second Catholic, which is to say, a former Catholic, or a recovering Catholic, or not a Catholic at all. Take your pick.
So off we go, heading over to the wide, people-filled Piazza del Popola. There are singers, tourists, lots of us, and protestors. I shoot hostile looks at the silent Anonymous clump, surely protesting the recent arrest of Assange, that rat-faced fucker. Surely, they’d frame his wrong doing in a First Amendment paradigm, overlooking his gigantically successful attempt to bring down the West and BTW how do they square the fact that Wikileaks’ sweeping and supposedly neutral disclosures never harm Putin?
But hey! There’s espresso and rosemary-sprinkled focaccia in the offing, so these depressing thoughts are shunted aside. We crossed the Tiber in search of a cafe with outdoor seating. Lovely!
This, believe it or not, is a cafe. Not sure I’d want to eat with this crew watching me.
I’ve been shooting tons of pictures of the walls here in Rome — each distressed surface more glorious than the last. I’ll bore you with those another time. But for now, here’s a shot of sculptural daisy that inspired hopes of a wishing wall. I might even have been framing my own wish when I pulled out a dusty drug store receipt. Ick!
However, yesterday, at the Santa Ignazio di Loyola, where we oohed and aahed over a well-known tromp l’oeil dome painting (apparently executed when the builders ran out of funds), I did light a candle for my sister.
