Roma Roma Roma

I had a charmed day in Rome.  I got up early and drove to the station to catch the direct train.  I had a cappuccino at the bar and bought my ticket from the bartender, who made sure that I knew how to stamp my ticket and pay the extra fare (since the bar sells only the cheaper regional tickets).  I left Assisi feeling confident after our conversation in Italian.

I got off in Termini and walked out into the city with all the morning commuters.  I didn't need to look at my map, and I carried only my small purse.  The sun was shining, and I had the whole day before me.

I headed down Via Nazionale and found my way (using my new gps phone!) to a little electronics store, where I bought a webcam to use for Skype. Another small success.  Then I wandered to the Pantheon, stopping to buy a slice of pizza and smilingly (how American) refusing the advances of a persistent Italian man.  I sat under the columns of the portico and ate my brunch, observing the streams of tourists and wondering about their thoughts.

My goal for this trip was to finally go inside St. Peter's.  I'd been to the Vatican many times, but never had the patience to wait in the line circling the piazza.  I walked through Piazza Navona, beautiful as always, and then up Via dei Coronari, a favorite street.

The line was short, but full of pushy tourists.  An entire Japanese tour cut in front of me, and some Germans pushed from behind.  It was hot in the sun, but I had to put on my jacket to cover my scandalously bare shoulders (see future rant about the contradictions and imbecilities of Italian culture).  I finally made it inside and was disappointed.  Except for the short descriptions given by friends and family, I entered completely ignorant about what to expect.  It looked dark, typical, and not nearly as big as I had been led to believe.

I liked best the last chapel on the left and the pointing hand of the saint on the right of the alter.  I saw the Pieta, prayed a little in a curtained chapel, saw a mass being watched by tourists (flashback to Notre Dame), stretched my neck every which way to see the ceiling frescoes, and got out of there as quickly as possible.

Making my way back towards P. Navona, I stopped for a caffe freddo at a corner bar.  I sat outside in the sun, regaining my composure from the crowds of St. Peter's.

It was now mid-afternoon and extremely hot.  I had one more errand to run: go to the H&M on Via del Corso and buy some shorts!

I made a detour to walk through Piazza del Popolo, noting the youth hanging out on the sides.  (I just watched a news reel about the Italian goths whom I now witnessed in person.  Their clothes are a direct contrast [rebellion against?] the classical beauty of the sun golden marble.)

I'll spare you the details of the multi-leveled horror and delight that is H&M... suffice to say that I emerged with a pair of shorts and a number of other items, one of which I'll have to return in Florence.  The psychological tricks worked, and I was duped yet again into spending more than foreseen.

I rushed back to the station, hurrying past the Spanish Steps without even looking.  I missed my train, the first and only real setback of the day, but I carefully bought myself an Estate iced tea and planted myself on a bench to start The Master and Margarita to wait for the next hour and a half.  The book was great; I was smiling uncontrollably, loving the descriptions of panicked emotions and the antics of the devil's henchmen, and I read the entire train ride, only glancing up occasionally to see the growing hills and mountains of the countryside, fields of sunflowers, flashing by.