Febbraio is here! Panic has begun to sink in. I need to begin planning my journeys because valuable time is slipping before my very eyes and soon it will be time for me to pack my bags back up (which already seems an impossible feat) and fly home to the sunshine state. This morning I decided that I needed to accomplish something in the free time before my evening Italian course and so I began planning. This weekend I will be traveling by train to a Northern city called Perugia, most famous for its delicious chocolate. Nearby is the city of Assisi where, time allowing, I will make a side trip to see the homestead of St. Francis.
Alright, no more putting it off—I must write about this last Sunday, it is time:
Breathe in, breathe out. Just remember to breath. Walking toward the center of the church, despite reminding myself, I still forget to breathe as I look up into the amazing dome designed by Michelangelo himself. Spiraling upward my eyes try to take in as much of the details as possible: the beautiful arches layered one upon the other peaking toward a center, god-like destination resting a field’s length (430 ft) away from my peering human body, reachable only be the worthy. In the lowest circle within the dome I can see Mary, Jesus and Saints, in the next numerous Angels are suspended, and far in the heavens is God himself. Directly in front of me, barricaded off from the crowds is a huge altar, covered by a large bronze canopy, resting over the remains of St. Peter, one of Jesus’ 12 apostles. At the base of the dome is a blue banner with a quote in Latin: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam Mathew 16:18, “You are Peter and upon this rock I will build my church.” Every biblical passage addressed to Peter is written throughout the church.
Are Peter’s bones truly lying at the base of this church? Definitely, maybe.
Everywhere I look, there is art: on the ceilings, on the ancient floors grooved from years of pilgrimages, statues’ glazed expressions stare on in compassion, graciousness, fear, and love as camera flashes spread across their marble limbs, and large paintings depicting various biblical passages hang in frames too large to be hefted by the feeble muscles of men. Despite the large numbers mulling around the church, sound disperses into the high ceilings of the church and you are alone, accompanied by an ancient power too tangible to be ignored.
Standing by the main altar, a procession begins lead by the clergy singing in low Latin tones. Following behind the golden cross held high is a mass of people singing in the same holy words, some, who are not 100% sure, mouth along to the words still participating in this holy procession. When the group reaches the front of the church there is not room for me to squeeze through the crowd and glimpse the continuance of mass, so I move on.
Somewhere I know there is a mosaic copy of the painting depicting St. Peter being crucified upside down, and yet this gruesome storyboard did not reveal itself to me. St. Peter was executed and was told he would be killed in the same way as his savior, crucified. However, Peter did not believe he was worthy to be killed in the same manner as his lord and thus he was crucified as the “missing” painting shows, upside down.
My group was ready to depart from this holy world, but I felt myself being tugged by a spiritual force back into the many folds of the church. Here is Jesus, being cradled in the robes of Mary, her face turned upward toward the sky pleading for her dead son. Jesus looks like a small child compared to the woman wrapping herself about him in maternal love. Michelangelo’s only signed work now rests behind a panel of bullet proof glass, after a madman took a chisel to the art in 1972 inflicting damages on the falling son of God.
Before we had ventured into St. Peter’s Basilica we had waited in line for several hours for the Vatican’s museum. Although it was the last Sunday of the month (the only day of the month the Vatican is open for no fee) the slight sprinkle seemed to keep most tourists in their hotel rooms rather than down on the sidewalk in the line we stood in for about an hour. We entered into the museum and did not know where to go first. This place is huge!
No matter which path you decide to take you can’t go wrong and will end up seeing something spectacular, but we were on a time limit. We still had to make our way to the Basilica and thus we tried to pinpoint the main event: the Sistine Chapel. Somehow we ended up making our way through the museum in a backward manner, so when we made it to the Sistine Chapel, we were not permitted to go through the other way and continue on with the rest of the museum. But honestly, the Sistine Chapel was enough for me. Every inch of the floor was covered by a pair of shoes rooting star gazers into place as their eyes searched the heavenly panels of the chapel above. The group I was with did not believe we were in the Sistine Chapel because they thought it would be bigger. Only when I pointed out the most recognizable painting on the ceiling of God and Adam nearly joining fingers did they believe me that we were in fact standing under the creations of Michelangelo. I still can’t believe we were there. A small edge runs around the exterior of the chapel allowing people to rest their necks as they sit down to continue gazing skyward, allowing the panels of paintings to tell their stories. Tourists try to avoid the threatening gazes of the guards as they hold their cameras low below their abdomens snapping pictures of the ceiling above.
I can just picture Michelangelo perched close to the ceiling with all his toxic painting materials, creating masterpieces in the fading light. How did he do it? Did he ever want to give up? Was he overwhelmed with the wide, white expanse of the ceiling leading before his paintbrush? Some painters take years to complete one portrait and yet Michelangelo was able to complete the Sistine Chapel in his lifetime, not to mention his other great works. What a man.
Outside of the mass packed Chapel I vow that before I return to the United States I will make another pilgrimage to the Sistine. A lonely pilgrimage this time however so I can sit for hours upon hours, staring up at history.
The rest of the day consisted of walking, walking, and some more walking. After the museum, my friends were hungry and where did they want to eat let me ask you?! Not the delicious foods of Roman Gods, no, but the food of Kings, Burger King that it. After downing my whopper jr. however, I was feeling anything but royal. Walking down the streets of Rome, heading toward the Trevi fountain for a taste of its delicious gelato, I thought I might throw up. For the rest of my trip here I swear I will not allow the convenience of fast food to overcome me again. How I was even tempted by those French fries and coca cola I will never know. When in Rome, I suppose.
We missed the train we wanted to take home but were able to stroll along the Roman streets at a leisurely stroll that contrasted greatly with the pace of the day. Reaching the station we realized we had even more time, more time than we wanted, because Italy’s railways were on strike. We arrived back into home much later than we had wanted, tired with full bladders. Falling into bed after such a day I could not numb my mind to the flashing historical images I had walked under, near and around, which before I had only seen in my text books.
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