The Romantic Rhine (sans girlfriends)

The first part of this photo album has images from our day on the Rhine. Soon I'll let you in on our adventures in the Netherlands, but first Deutschland!

After a surprisingly restful night’s sleep on our upholstered barber’s chairs, we stepped off the train in Cologne ready to see a huge cathedral and a few castles. We had to hustle, though. It was 6AM, peak time for tourist traffic at the Dom.

But first, we had to stow our luggage. We wandered the Cologne station searching for the standard locker bays, but only found a short row of terminals fronted with mini-garage doors and the “locker” icon. We sized up the contraption, weighing the benefits of dropping our gear against an innate fear of new technology. Eventually we rounded up enough change to stuff our luggage in the garage door. After taking our money, the door closed and mechanized noises rattle from within. Then the door popped open again, ready for the next duffel bag. Apparently there’s a vast Swiss-bank-like network of storage containers under the Cologne train station with a giant claw hovering over your deposited luggage. I briefly considered investigating this novel world of infrastructure by climbing through the door, but decided I would rather see the Romantic Rhine.

The cathedral confronts you as soon as you exit the train station. It’s impressive every time.

We walked around the building and found out it was open for visitors and 7AM mass was about to get underway at the Marian Chapel. So, as the organist performed the opening hymn on a small, piano-sized organ, we squeezed into the pews of the chapel off to the side of the main alter.

The Marian Chapel is so named for the ornate altar that depicts the arrival of the magi (a popular theme in the cathedral that houses their relics) at Mary and Jesus’s feet. An art museum argued the altar was too delicate to remain in the cathedral. The church wanted to keep it to use for worship. The court decided to let the Dom hang onto the precious piece of art as long as the church actually put it to use. So now they are legally required to say Mass in front of it at least once a day.

Apparently they opt to use it for the early mass so only the truly dedicated (read “old”) can appreciate the masterpiece of the Late Medieval Kölner school. We raised a few skeptical eyebrows as we took our places near the front of the chapel. The Sign of Peace was not extended to these youthful intruders.

At 8AM we finished wandering the cathedral and were on our way south. We kept checking our watches to make sure it was really that early. No one can accuse of us wasting a moment on that useless enemy of active tourism: sleep.

We hopped off the train in the small town of Bacharach. On one side of the town is the noble Rhine River. On the other are the steep, slate slopes overgrown with vineyards. The town was first settled in Roman times and earned its name “Bacchus’s Altar” for its prolific wine production. Looming over the vines is the stately Stahleck castle whose foundations go back at least a millennium. I really don’t get tired of typing statements like that.

My ankle was feeling flexible, so we walked through the old Medieval gate in search of a path to the castle. It’s a pretty popular tourist stop, so we figured it would be well marked. As soon as we veered from the quaint fachwerk drag of town, we were rapidly in the burbs. We could still see the castle, but couldn’t figure out how to get up there without crossing through a few yards.

We started to follow a small sidewalk that crossed a stream that once washed all the town’s garbage out to the river and saw signs for a youth hostel that was also uphill. We followed the signs. After a couple switchbacks we had a commanding view of the valley and realized the youth hostel signs were leading us into the castle. We crossed a drawbridge and discovered we could have stayed in a turret for a few euros. I guess no self-respecting older guest would want to slog up a hill for their bed.

A small Medieval fair was underway and people in leather armor were sipping coffee and shooting arrows. Perfect. We explored the castle, including a great hall that was decorated with the coat-of-arms of just about every city on the Rhine. Bonn and Cologne made an appearance along with Bacharach and Boppard.

We crossed through the main gate and up to a defensive wall that gave us these views of the river:

It was worth the hike. Looking down at the river though, I had a desire to get to the shore and onto a boat.

As we climbed down from the castle’s perch we saw Werner’s chapel, a Gothic ruin of a church that was dedicated to St. Werner. According to a Medieval legend, a traveler found the butchered body of young Werner on his way to Bacharach. The body smelled of violets and was undisturbed by wild animals. The butchering was blamed on Jews and the sweet smell was chalked up to God.

The locals built a soaring Gothic church over the spot and interred the body of the boy in its foundations. Eventually a bishop got word of Werner’s beautification and the pilgrims who were visiting his grave. This bishop thought the story of Werner’s “martyrdom” a little weird and stopped the beautification process. No more St. Werner and no more Gothic church. The ruin is picturesque though.

On our way through town we grabbed a bottle of Riesling made from the vineyards immediately behind us. The woman at the register of the small wine shop gave us a knowing nod when we asked her to pop the cork and lend us a few plastic cups. We then hustled to the kebab place across the street to grab some quick take-out food. The Döner is a Turkish/German mash-up that’s essentially a gyro with cabbage: lamb meat from a pole, tomatoes, a yogurt sauce, and slaw. Of course, we picked a place that bakes its own bread for your sandwich. This would normally be a welcome addition to the döner kebab, but we had a boat to catch. We anxiously watched the clock and scrutinized the bizarre pictures of giant grouses fighting in a stream, and a woman lassoing white horse - I can only assume these are idyllic images of Turkey - while our bread baked.

Finally, with only minuets to spare we bolted from the shop with our warm flatbread and wine and clamored aboard the H.M.S. Boppard. Our rail passes covered the ride, and we found a table near the front where we could see both castle-littered banks of the river. We toasted the river and set to our lunch.

In mid-bite I was interrupted by the a scowling waiter. Pointing at the bar on deck he declared. “No eating. This is a restaurant.” I thought about pointing out his obvious contradiction, then decided it probably wouldn't fulfill the Fulbright mission of extending positive impressions of Americans. We packed away our food and wine brought from outside and scurried to the other end of the boat, away from his disapproving glare. We didn’t want any of his overpriced food or beverages. We would wait to enjoy the rest of our lunch on shore. For the moment we would just enjoy the castles.

Periodically a series of timed, recorded announcements in German, French, English, Italian, Spanish, and Japanese would let us know what we were seeing on each bank. The announcement failed to point out the gathering grey clouds. Just as we neared the Lorelei, the narrowest section of the river that was said to be haunted by an alluring river spirit who would coax sailors to their death on the rocks, the heavens opened and we retreated to the sumptuous lower deck. There we watched the towns and castles from the comfort of a dry table. Coffee was deemed a necessary purchase even though the day was still young.

The rain petered out and I got to stand over the noble Rhine with the wind in my hair one more time before we disembarked in Boppard. As soon as our shoes hit shore, the deluge started all over again and we found shelter in a conveniently placed Carmelite church. As in Zurich, we evaluated the interior for exactly as long as the heavy rain lasted. Then it was back into the streets in search of the train station. Dripping red cabbage juice from our döner kebab sandwiches we could finally finish lunch as we waited for the train north. Mike is a fan of Beethoven, and there is one city every Beethoven fan should visit for roughly an hour: Bonn. I would briefly be home.

In the warm comfort of the train we could watch even more castles go by and Mike and Tim got to listen to my running commentary on the un-romantic Rhine that begins north of the city of Koblenz (the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers). When we got to the former capital of Western Germany I lead Mike and Tim directly to the scowling centerpiece of the city: Beethoven’s statue. We also ducked into the Münsterbasilica (Münster means “Head” or “Chief” by the by) to see the ancient, chunky basilica - my home parish - then rolled on to Beethoven’s birthplace. We didn’t have time to actually take a tour though. I have yet to make this Bonner pilgrimage through the home of the Romantic composer. I keep waiting for a visitor who has the interest and time. Next weekend, maybe.

Humming the 9th, we turned and went back to the train station. We were really getting our money’s worth out of the rail passes. Unfortunately there was a stamping error on Mike’s and he had to get the mistake corrected at the customer service desk at the Bonn station. All wrongs were made right with three new stamps. It’s not official in Germany until at least two stamps have been applied, so we knew Mike’s pass was extra official with a third.

In Cologne we plugged in our code and our luggage miraculously appeared behind the garage door. Vowing I would find out more about this system, we turned to the tracks leading north. With a “Tschüss” to Germany, we set our sights on the Dutch. In three hours we would be in the international capital of tulips, pot-heads, and 'dam jokes: Amsterdam.

Until then enjoy the first part of this album!

The Barbarians Conquer Rome

The second photo album of Rome with images of the Vatican, the Pantheon, and the streets of the city. Unfortunately several of the places we visited on the last day don't allow photographs so you may need to rely on my adjectives to get the picture (and pictures taken from Google image searches).

After another night interrupted by drunken roommates who had clearly had spent too much time together (“Ya know, I don’t think you want to be here. I think you hate it here!”) and another morning spent fighting for breakfast, we were on the street hiking past plazas and churches (you can’t walk through Rome without plenty of both) for the Villa Borghese gardens a large English-style garden that houses the Borghese Museum (go figure).

The Museum was once the home of Cardinal Scipione Borghese who was an early patron of Bernini. It’s a relatively small collection but it packs in the big names including all the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Because of its size, they only let 150 people in at a time so we called two days earlier and got the 9 AM slot. We only had two hours to tour the place before we were kicked out and the next 150 got to come in.

The first floor features a series of rooms with Bernini sculptures and the occasional Canova in the center and paintings on the walls. Each room was a quiz called name-that-myth. Venus, Pluto, Apollo, and Mercury all made appearances along with special guests from the Bible like a more determined David than Michelangelo’s. I think the most stunning sculpture was Apollo and Daphne. Bernini carved them right as Daphne, a tree spirit, transforms herself. They didn’t let us bring cameras, so here’s an image ripped from the Internet. You really need to see the leaves:

Upstairs were the paintings with every school and country represented. Really the Borghese would be a great primer on Renaissance and Baroque art before tackling one of the expansive European museums like the Vatican or the Prado…I would like to take this moment to remind you that this is the blog of a paleontologist living in Germany. If you think I babble more about art history in countries other than Germany than about fossils, stay tuned. The fossils are coming. But also know one of the great experiences of this year has been learning about the history of Western Art by actually visiting all these incredible collections. I already knew I would learn a lot about dead animals. Back to excitement about art…

Finally we were ushered out, slightly disappointed that a finished work by DaVinci was on loan. After the Last Supper we were doomed to see the stuff he never finished painting. Then we wandered into the garden, having finished a museum before lunchtime. We sat by an idyllic fountain and listened to a man play Vivaldi and Mozart on his recorder. We might have sat there all day if, you know, we weren’t in Rome.

Our next destination was the Pantheon. The building was constructed first by Agrippa (a buddy of Augustus) then Emperor Hadrian (after the first burned down) who had the bright idea of capping the temple to “All-Gods” with a massive dome. It’s the largest, unreinforced concrete dome in the world. How’s that for a superlative?

The dome thins towards the occulus and the admixture of the concrete gets lighter (pumice instead of granite) as you get closer to the top. It’s spectacular.

Really gazing into the Dome is the only reason to go in. The niches used to house sculptures of the major Olympian gods, but the place became a church in 609 and the sculptures were hauled out. The religious art inside the Pantheon - or the Church of St. Mary and the Martyrs, coincidentally the name of my Christian rock band – isn’t too inspiring, but the bodies are. Raphael is buried under the vault, along with the first king of Italy, Emmanuel II.

After staring upward in awe just a little longer, it was time to continue our journey south of the city to the Appian Way.

When Christianity started to take root in Rome during the 2nd century, the Christians needed a secret place to bury their dead. Fortunately the volcanic tuff around Rome is easy to dig out and sets like concrete once exposed to air. At least forty catacombs have been discovered around the city. The one we were headed for contained 15 km of tunnels on multiple levels that burrowed under the fields and roads leading to Rome. To get there we had to take a bus then actually walk the ancient cobble stones of the Appian Way. It was lined with farms and ruins. After a stroll past long lines of pine and olive trees we arrived at the Catacombs of San Callisto.

There wasn’t much to see, just a ticket booth and groups of older tourists wandering around. You must wait for a tour guide to enter the Catacombs and we were never given any timetable of languages and tours. We just waited and wandered aimlessly with the older folks.

Then a busload of Scottish Tourists arrived, excitedly discussing the workout they were about to undertake. They clearly spoke English (or Scottish as the case may be) and we thought we would probably have an English tour very soon. An Australian Salesian priest appeared and called for the English-speakers to gather. The Pope has charged the Salesians with curating the catacombs and the priests act as daily guides. Our Scottish companions were giddy with anticipation. After an introduction on the history of the site and the art we would see underground, Father started to lead us into the ground. Josh and I fell into the back, figuring we had the best ears in the group and would be able to hear over the rest of the Scots. We didn’t bank on the Spanish and Italians following close on our tails.

We did catch the important points though. We entered a room where the Early Christians met for the Eucharist. One group was discovered and all quickly became martyrs. The tomb of St. Cecelia was also in the catacomb. The Priest/Guide/Australian asked, “Does anyone know what she is the patron saint of?” Everyone chimed “Music!” And giggled with delight at getting the answer right. It was like being in kindergarten (not that I didn’t enjoy kindergarten). This furthered my theory that aging is really just an attempt to escape childhood followed by eventual acceptance of immaturity once again.

The walls were decorated with frescos of the Eucharist, Baptism, and the symbols of Christ like the fish and anchor. Many of the people who were buried in the catacombs converted at a dangerous time and are rightfully respected for their courage. What I think is more remarkable is how many were converted simply by hearing the message. There wasn’t a whole lot of literature going around. It was just people speaking about the gospel, and these people left families and traditions to follow something new. Talk about an intense historical moment.

The Scots were part of a church group and their priest started to set out the bread and wine and pass out readings in one of the worship chambers in the catacombs. We were invited to participate. Two forces were pulling Josh and I in two directions: The Rabid Tourist was drawing us back to Rome. There was still so much to see. The Guilty Catholic was compelling us to stay for mass in the catacombs (not a bad experience either). We received the tour guide’s blessing to move on. As we walked out he showed us Greek inscriptions and frescos that he wasn’t able to share with the larger, more geriatric group. We emerged from the Christian-made caves and walked back to the bus stop along the Appian Way.

Through the course of this Italian journey I was reading The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain. It recounts his adventures with a tour group along the Mediterranean and eventually to the Holy Land. In it he described the Capuchin Crypt. His description fascinated me and forced me to put it on the itinerary.

In the 1500s someone brought some soil from Jerusalem and presented it to the Capuchin friars. Naturally, everyone wanted to be buried in the soil of the Holy Land. Soon there were more bodies than dirt. So the friars took the next logical step. The started piling the bones of their deceased brothers on top of the soil in the crypt. Well that didn’t look very good, so someone came up with the idea of using the bones as Lego bricks.

The skeletons of over 4,000 Capuchin brothers who died between 1528 and 1870 were used to construct the decorations of chapels lining the crypt. Columns of femurs and tibiae are crowned with skulls and mandibles. Fleur-de-lis made of ribs and lantern holders of illia and coxyxes hang overhead. There were even skeletal Putti made with a skull and two scapulae for wings. In the final room of the small crypt was a sign in five languages that read, "What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be...” It was time to be uplifted. So we decided to climb St. Peter’s Dome.

We didn’t have time for it the day before, and we were running tight on time so we jogged to the Vatican. They let us in, we bought our ticket and we started up the first flight of spiraling stairs.

We emerged at the base of the dome (which was designed by Michelangelo) and were able to get close to the massive (that word is impossible to avoid when describing St. Peter’s, it doubles as an unintentional pun) mosaics and really appreciate the expanse of open space over the altar.

A service was going on below us, and the people were nearly impossible to distinguish from one another.

We were really high up and we still had stairs to climb.

The next flight followed the curve of the dome as we walked between the copper covered exterior and the cement, mosaic-encrusted interior. The hall actually warped as we rose to the peak and finally emerged and saw this:

Well, we saw this and a bunch of people trying to photograph this. It was tough to find a spot, but we elbowed in and started pointing out all the landmarks we could see and stood in awe of the number of domes this city can lay claim to.

With a final salute to the city, we climbed down again, past the famous statues over the facade of the Basilica, and did some souvenir shopping. Our most important purchase was real Italian cannoli. The ricotta, vanilla, and chocolate chip-filled pastry was perfect for capping a long day wandering all over the city.

After dropping off our gifts at the hostel, we needed one more meal. The Italians like to eat in several courses and Josh and I hadn’t done the full culinary tour that starts with an antipasta plate, then pasta (go figure), then meat, and finally coffee and desert. I mused on where to go and Josh sheepishly suggested La Montecarlo, the chaotic place we had been the first night in Rome. We’ve been well trained not to duplicate an experience on vacation, but we also felt we had rushed the restaurant the first time. We knew it would be cheap and we would be able to get the full traditional meal. Off to hang with Monty.

It was a Saturday night and the place was packed. A line had formed in the alley next to the restaurant where large groups of locals negotiated with the waiters and each other for a spot to eat. We stood back and watched the blur of food and motion and smiled. This was Italy. We were asked several times for how many were in our group, but never by the same person and never on a piece of paper or notepad. The party behind us was inexplicably kicked out, and the couple ahead of us was seated before the couple ahead of them. The inefficiency of the operation was frustrating to my American and new German sensibilities. I leaned in to Josh, “Remember, these are the descendents of the people who built the aqueduct. These are the people who conquered Europe before telephones. What happened?” At the same time the energy of the place was infectious. I was willing to wait and watch, even if it meant being seated at 10:30 PM and not getting our first course until 11:15.

We toasted the city and a successful journey across the Italian Peninsula. We ate fried artichokes, sipped wine, and spun real Italian spaghetti. We also were stuffed. Our dreams of getting through all the courses were quashed by a skewed Italian perception of portion size. After midnight, it was time to do some last-minute exploring. We needed to find the Trevi Fountain. It’s a Roman icon and if you pitch a coin into the water, you’re assured another visit to the city, or maybe a chance to fall in love, or even a new Vespa. I guess it depends on your frame of mind. We found some useless small change and sacrificed it to Neptune then watched groups of friends and lovers eating gelato and tossing coins. I really hope I get to come back.

We continued to wander and chat in search of a bar for a parting drink (a Kemble cup, if you will). Afterwards we made the unfortunate decision to walk back to the hostel. An hour-long hike across Rome, buzzed and tired, is not the way to cap off a Saturday night despite what you may have heard. We were tucked in at 3 AM and my alarm went off at 5:50 AM. Groggily we packed, brushed our teeth, and hurried to the bus station where my airport shuttle was waiting. Because of the rush, Josh and I exchanged a quick hung goodbye, and I was gone, rumbling past ruined aqueducts for the airport and my Ryan Air flight back to Frankfurt-Hahn. Josh left a little later by train for the International Airport. As I took off from Italy, last minute postcards recently dispatched, I tried to reflect on the previous two weeks. It was almost too much to process.

I can’t tell you how many paintings I scrutinized, statues I walked around, or times I said “wow.” I can tell you that I saw, did, and said all of that with my brother. The previous five years didn’t afford us very much time together, and this trip reintroduced us to each other as we start the unenviable task of becoming adults. We probably won’t be able to share as many memories together for a very long time, and that thought really bums me out, but for now I’m just happy we were able to share two weeks on the boot.

I hope you have some time to spend with your family, biological or surrogate, this weekend. Only two more months until I am reunited with mine!

Ciao!

The final Italian photo album. Have fun!

Vatican Romin'

Here's a photo album that has pictures from our tour of Ancient Rome and the beginning of our adventures in the Vatican. Tomorrow I'll attach another album with the rest of the Vatican and our final day doing as the Romans do.

Warning: Beyond this place there be art.

Our hostel in Rome was one of the strangest I’ve briefly slept in. Josh and I woke up at our usual 7-ish and saw people! The showers were occupied and we puttered around, fighting for breakfast rolls and downloading photos from our cameras. The photo part took a little longer than expected and we got a later start than planned when we boarded the subway and started rolling to Vatican City.

We popped out of the station (with an Angels and Demons poster overhead. Clearly someone saw a marketing opportunity) and didn’t see much that would indicate a separate, sovereign country was nearby. Literally no street signs or big arrow that said “Vatican.” A very German-looking tour group was walking in a direction that seemed right-ish. We compulsively followed.

And there we were, walking along the massive wall that encloses the smallest country –by landmass and population – in the world. This independence has only existed since 1929. I’ve always thought it was pretty cool that the Catholic Church has its own country, but really it’s a shadow of its former real estate. After the fall of the Western Roman Empire, the only stable power in Rome was the Church. It ruled Rome for centuries. In order to keep the Catholics from meddling with Mussolini, he separated them from Italy. I just wish they required you to stamp your passport when you cross the border.
Because we were running a little late, we forwent the traditional entrance through St. Peter’s Square and went straight for the Museum. It was sprawling and at varying stages of modernity. Some displays offered detailed explanations of the art and artifacts (the Eutruscans were particularly well-covered) while others barely offered the artist's name (the Renaissance Picture Gallery). I waffled over getting expensive audio guides to accompany the journey. Josh just dove in. I followed. Really, he had the most to gain with the guide anyway since it would have shut me up. Maybe by now he’s learned his lesson.

We started with the Early Christian Art, most of which was recovered from the catacombs that surround the city. Early Christians used a very different iconographic language than their Medieval counterparts. Where Gothic churches are filled with images of the crucifixion and the Madonna (to the point where you wonder if there’s anything more to the Christian story than Death and Mary) the sarcophagi were covered with intricate scenes of redemption and miracles. God stays the hand of Abraham, Jonah makes it out of the Great Fish, and Jesus raises Lazarus.

The Good Shepherd (not actually a representation of Christ) was eclipsed by the Christ on the cross. There's an interesting psychological shift to think about.

Why don’t we use these more jubilant images more often in Christian iconography? We’re still more interested in the martyred saints than the Love of God. But that’s just my two cents.

Our first taste of Raphael through his Transfiguration.

Then we entered the picture gallery to spend some more time with Late Medieval artists, the Renaissance masters like DaVinci and Raphael, and then into the Baroque with Caravaggio and Ruebens.

Caravaggio showing the internment in the tomb.

But we’d seen a lot of that before. So we headed into the Ancient Art.


The Vatican literally has entire hallways packed with ancient statuary. Every patrician’s bust ended up in their vaults and every emperor is represented at least six times. The noble robes of politicians and bared flesh of the gods leads the way to some of the most important statues from the ancient world such as Laocoön and His Sons.

The doomed priest is famous for saying, “I fear the Greeks, even when bearing gifts.” The gods didn’t like his suspicions about the Trojan Horse, so they sent giant serpents to kill him and his sons. The bulging muscles and vivid expressions were shocking to Hellenistic Greeks and a revelation when they came out of the ground and people like Michelangelo took a gander. The statue was impressive, but not nearly on the scale I imagined it. Laocoön is life-sized if slightly smaller and fits comfortably in his niche in the courtyard of the Belvedere garden.

Another highlight of the Greeks was this bizarre statue of the Nile who seems to be suffering a plague of babies rather than a plague of frogs:

Mummies, Eutruscan jewelry, and Greek Pottery paraded by. We were flashing back and forth across 3,500 years of art history and the whiplash was starting to wear us down. It was time to settle comfortably in the Renaissance. Down a sequence of hallways that must have stretched for a half-mile were gorgeous Flemish tapestries.

Along a massive stretch of hallway were 40 maps, primarily of Italy, all painted by a single cartographer. On the ceiling were painted scenes from the lives of the saints and Bible that somehow corresponded to each region and country. It made me wish I knew my Italian geography better, not to mention the lives of the saints.

We were getting close to the Main Event as we followed signs for the Sistine Chapel. But first we needed to see Raphael’s masterpieces including the School of Athens in which all the heroes of the Renaissance get dressed up as Greeks. Davinci takes a turn as Plato, Bromante (the guy who designed St. Peter’s) is Euclid, Raphael as Apelles, a famous Greek Painter and so on.

Then it was time to see Michelangelo. Throughout the week Josh had been reading “Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling” by Ross King and had been our source on Renaissance characters, especially Mike. He was grinning his dimples off as we finally stepped through a small door and looked up.

The ceiling is expansive and incredibly high. This is a key point because you need to crane your neck to take it in. You look up, then need to roll your vertebrae, and try to soak it all up again Figures ripple with motion and energy. As with so many other famous work’s we’d seen, it lived up to all the hype.


On the wall below the story of Creation is Michelangelo’s later Last Judgment. The Optimism of the Renaissance was fading in Italy (the Reformation had started to divide Europe) and the Last Judgment shows it. Instead of balanced figures elegantly aloof, we see pain and anger as a muscular Christ (with a torso borrowed from a statue of Hercules) hurls sinners downward. Something Baroque and Mike wasn’t ready to fix it.

Then we finally popped out of the museum. We had probably walked a couple of miles through the halls, but we still needed to see the object of our religious pilgrimage: St. Peter’s Basilica. After a quick sandwich at the cheap but poorly advertised museum cafeteria, we walked out and followed the wall through a colonnade and suddenly broke out into Bernini’s St. Peter’s square. Hundreds of columns formed massive arms embracing the devoted. We saw the windows the Pope occasionally pops out of (he was in the Holy Land at the time we were there) and searched for the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. We never located it.

Time to go in. Walking past yet another obelisk and more signs to cover our knees and shoulders, we crossed past the sealed Jubilee Door and entered the Cathedral. It wasn’t all that shocking. I think I was more moved by my first view of the Cologne Dome. It just didn’t seem all that big. Then I saw people shuffling around near the alter, barely discernible forms under what looked like a normal-sized canopy. But the canopy was 100 feet tall. The scale slowly sunk in as I realized the statues were two stories high. It was massive, but everything was massive. The figures ensconced near the ceiling were larger than those at ground level. With the perspective they looked like they were the same size and the roof closer than it was. It was hard to appreciate the scale without people crawling on the ceiling.

This scale is intentional. The building was built to hold tens of thousands (60,000 have crammed in before). That’s a lot of people and you can feel lost in a massive, distant place of worship, so the scale makes it feel smaller, more intimate like your worship space at home. Except my worship space doesn’t sport work by Michelangelo, Canova, or Bernini.

Under the grate is the tomb of Peter and the reason to build the massive worship space that surrounds it.

I don’t know how spiritually moved I was as I gazed in awe at mosaics, the play of the light over gold leaf, or the Statue of St. Peter that has been an object of devotion for centuries. I wasn’t really thinking about God. I was thinking about the men who had conceived this project, who had built these walls, and installed the art. There is no modern building that took such effort. I know the logistics of building a sky scraper or stadium are daunting, but we use steel. We have motors. This was all built with simple machines and muscle in the 16th century. All for the glory of God, but also demonstrating the achievements of men.


Onto the street. On to food. We followed a Lonely Planet recommendation to a restaurant called “Dino and Tony.” The façade didn’t look like much. In fact we walked past it at first. It was roughly 7:00 PM when we poked our heads in the door. It was dead. One table sat eating. That was it. Suddenly the perfect stereotype of the Italian restaurant owner burst from the back. “To eat?” “Yes.” Suddenly another guy appeared the room was entirely rearranged as tables merged and divided. We stood and watched the swirl of activity we had somehow sparked. When the dust settled, we were shown to a neat table in the center of the room.

Tony asked something. Josh instinctively nodded. Another question. He nodded again. Tony was confused then turned to me, “Bianco? Rosso? (White? Red?)” “Bianco.” Then another question. We nodded.

Soon we had a feast spread before us. We had ordered a half-liter of white wine and an antipasta plate that was actually made up of three plates, one with a pizza, one with fried things, and a final cheese and meat plate. We had planned to just stop in for a snack. This was dinner. We watched Tony bicker with Dino and help a couple decide what kind of pasta they really wanted. I think he would be ready to make-up a whole new recipe on the spot if you wanted him to. When we told Tony it was time for us to move on without pasta, he looked hurt. After a day spent recharging my Catholic roots, my guilt almost forced me to order something.

But we made it out, and started to hike towards the Castel Sant'Angelo, a set piece in Angels and Demons, and refuge for Popes on the banks of the Tiber River. We thought it would be a nice walk around the building, but as we approached we saw a large gathering of people. We were curious what everyone was excited about. I saw a sign that said “1000 Miles” that had a Fiat logo on it. Then the engines roared and we saw a parade of cars from the 1930s go by. Reporters interviewed the drivers who were on a cross country race and had reached a check point. I really wanted to cross the Castel bridge which was near the main stage and the sitting VIPs, so I dove into the crowd. I also wanted to see the speaker’s platform. This was not one of my better ideas.

The crush of humanity increased its pressure around us as we got closer to the bridge. I haven’t felt that cramped since I saw Obama in Prague. Children were being passed over the crowd, or were nearly crushed under the spectators’ feet. Finally we broke onto the bridge. Josh gave me a look that said “Never Again.”

We sat and watched the proceedings from the bridge with our feet hanging over the Tiber, decompressing after a day spent absorbing some of the most important pieces of art in Western Civilization. It was heady stuff which meant we needed beer, gelato, and bed. Only one more day in the Eternal City…

The pictures one more time.