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Meeting the Pope
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Back in 1999, during the University of Heidleberg's overly generous "Spring Break", Steffi and I made our first trip to Italy together, deciding to take her little red Volkswagon Polo because it would offer us a great deal more freedom than the Geman-Italo InterCity Express train. Besides, when two people who share the same finances start traveling together in Germany, there's no cheaper solution than the automobile.
We started out from her mother's place in Aalen. Steffi's hometown is about an hour southeast of Stuettgart and about seven hours driving time from Venice. (As far as Pine Mountain, Gerogia, my boyhood burg, is from New Orleans). The trip throught the snow-covered Alps into a bright, sunny, and warm Italy was surreal, and Venedig - or Venezia, its true name - was just as romantic as any piece of literature based on the city depicts. I should go back through my photo album sometime and find the pictures of the pension we found. The "innkeeper" refused to let me practice my faulty Italian because he was so determined to practice his German with us.
We spent two days of long walks and endless snapshots in Venice before taking a circuitous driving route through Italy's heartland, visiting amazing cities like Urbino, Assissi, and Spello. The latter, a little village about 20 minutes north of Assissi was where we finally decided to rent an apartment for a week -- an opportunity for us to take a break from the hotel-a-night style of travel, settle down in one spot for awhile, and undetake short excursions into the neighboring countryside. Steffi's family actually had become fairly well acquainted with the apartment's owner during past visits, so we had an "instant in" in Spello.
After a few days of relaxing walks through the small town and around similar towns nearby, we got the urge to go metropolitan again and eventually agreed that Rome would be well worth a relaxing, stress-free train ride together. There was no way either of us were going to drive the little Polo into the heart of one of Europe's busiest and most chaotic cities. As soon as we got off the train and set foot into Rome I knew that letting Italy's rail system escort us into "La Roma" had been a wise decision. Apparently there's some rule that you're only allowed to travel around the city on foot or with a moped. I imagine that living in Rome is the human equivalent of living in a beehive. The humming, droning, and non-stop activity of those lawn-mower engined vehicles was incessant and hypnotizing.
Rome is, incredibly, an entirely "walkable" city. Never once did we set foot on the metro, call a cab, or get on a bus. (We wouldn't have known where we were going or how to ask to get there anyway.) In about 8 hours we probably covered about 10 miles of pavement, ambulating past the Colliseum, through city parks, up the Spanish Steps, in and around the ruins in the Forum, and into a museum or two.
A trip to Rome, obviously, is not complete without a stop at the Vatican and a chance to see the Sistine Chapel. So, we hoofed it over the Tiber River and into the place that is its own city state. We spent some time wandering about circular St. Peter's Square, watching the other tourists milling about the tall obelisk in the center of the plaza. At some point, I overheard an American whispering to his daughter, a girl of no more than 12, that she behave because they would be going in to the Basilica in just a few moments to see the Pope and, perhaps, get his blessing.
Although Steffi and I aren't particularly religious in our ways, we certainly weren't going to pass up the opportunity to at least see the Pope from a distance. We followed the family, eventually, in to the Basilica, and it was lucky that it was still cool, as there is a fairly strict dress code in the Vatican. Both of us had closed shoes, long pants, and sleeved shirts on. Apparently women are not allowed onto the premises wearing dresses that fall short of the knee or blouses that expose the shoulders. Fortunately, we were both covered.
We entered into the somewhat gloomy interior of St. Peter's church and happened on a line, surprisingly short, of people waiting. Well, since we were perhaps not in but near Rome, we did as the Romans (more tourists, really) do and got in the slow flowing molasses of the masses. As we moved along we had a chance to see some of the statues, reliquaries, and early religious paintings decorating the niches and walls of the church. As we progressed, the presence of Vatican security became increasingly palpable (or is that papalble?) and every now and then we were subjected to a pat-down and going over by the guard.
As we neared a white-clotheed, tent-like structure set up in front of and just 10 yards from the centrally-located altar, my heart began beating wildly, and I could tell that Steffi, too, was starting to shake a bit from the anticipation. Were we really about to meet the Pope? And on the one day we just happened to be in Rome and the Vatican? When we moved to the head of the line, a guard made it clear that only one of us would be allowed to pass through the drapery doors of the tent. Steffi, obviously, would go first, and then wait for me on the other side. I still have a lucid mental picture of her striding up to the white folds of the entrance, accompanied by a black-garbed "watcher". At the last second, before the material parted, she stole a quick glance back at me, smiling this scintillatingly brilliant and sneaky smile, almost as if to say, "I'm the last person in hell who deserves to see the Pope."
I waited an interminable two minutes until I, too, was allowed past the black metal crowd control fences and led into the tent...
When I came out the other side, Steffi was waiting for me, barely able to breathe, gesturing widely and advancing to hug me with a fervor that wasn't out of place, considering what the two of us had just witnessed and experienced.
"Wasn't that the most amazing thing ever?" she said to me in German, embracing me warmly. I nodded, letting her pull my head down onto her shoulder and trying not to let too many of my own tears escape down my glowing face. "I can't believe," she said, "he gave me a blessing! I've never really thought much of the guy and his Papal authority."
I, too, had been wholly (or holy?) engulfed into what had just happened to me. Inside that tent, the little, stooped Polish man clad in his white robes had received me with kindness and a charisma that I will never forget. He stretched out his right hand to me, which I took without a thought, and nodded. With his left he motioned that I advance, and as I did, he placed that same hand behind my neck and drew me closer, hovering his mouth above my ear. In a single breath, he whispered, just barely audible to me, "If I ever fall into a coma or persistent vegetative state, I want you to make sure that, when brain-death is certain, that the feeding tubes be removed."
***
Hey, there were only three hours left...
We started out from her mother's place in Aalen. Steffi's hometown is about an hour southeast of Stuettgart and about seven hours driving time from Venice. (As far as Pine Mountain, Gerogia, my boyhood burg, is from New Orleans). The trip throught the snow-covered Alps into a bright, sunny, and warm Italy was surreal, and Venedig - or Venezia, its true name - was just as romantic as any piece of literature based on the city depicts. I should go back through my photo album sometime and find the pictures of the pension we found. The "innkeeper" refused to let me practice my faulty Italian because he was so determined to practice his German with us.
We spent two days of long walks and endless snapshots in Venice before taking a circuitous driving route through Italy's heartland, visiting amazing cities like Urbino, Assissi, and Spello. The latter, a little village about 20 minutes north of Assissi was where we finally decided to rent an apartment for a week -- an opportunity for us to take a break from the hotel-a-night style of travel, settle down in one spot for awhile, and undetake short excursions into the neighboring countryside. Steffi's family actually had become fairly well acquainted with the apartment's owner during past visits, so we had an "instant in" in Spello.
After a few days of relaxing walks through the small town and around similar towns nearby, we got the urge to go metropolitan again and eventually agreed that Rome would be well worth a relaxing, stress-free train ride together. There was no way either of us were going to drive the little Polo into the heart of one of Europe's busiest and most chaotic cities. As soon as we got off the train and set foot into Rome I knew that letting Italy's rail system escort us into "La Roma" had been a wise decision. Apparently there's some rule that you're only allowed to travel around the city on foot or with a moped. I imagine that living in Rome is the human equivalent of living in a beehive. The humming, droning, and non-stop activity of those lawn-mower engined vehicles was incessant and hypnotizing.
Rome is, incredibly, an entirely "walkable" city. Never once did we set foot on the metro, call a cab, or get on a bus. (We wouldn't have known where we were going or how to ask to get there anyway.) In about 8 hours we probably covered about 10 miles of pavement, ambulating past the Colliseum, through city parks, up the Spanish Steps, in and around the ruins in the Forum, and into a museum or two.
A trip to Rome, obviously, is not complete without a stop at the Vatican and a chance to see the Sistine Chapel. So, we hoofed it over the Tiber River and into the place that is its own city state. We spent some time wandering about circular St. Peter's Square, watching the other tourists milling about the tall obelisk in the center of the plaza. At some point, I overheard an American whispering to his daughter, a girl of no more than 12, that she behave because they would be going in to the Basilica in just a few moments to see the Pope and, perhaps, get his blessing.
Although Steffi and I aren't particularly religious in our ways, we certainly weren't going to pass up the opportunity to at least see the Pope from a distance. We followed the family, eventually, in to the Basilica, and it was lucky that it was still cool, as there is a fairly strict dress code in the Vatican. Both of us had closed shoes, long pants, and sleeved shirts on. Apparently women are not allowed onto the premises wearing dresses that fall short of the knee or blouses that expose the shoulders. Fortunately, we were both covered.
We entered into the somewhat gloomy interior of St. Peter's church and happened on a line, surprisingly short, of people waiting. Well, since we were perhaps not in but near Rome, we did as the Romans (more tourists, really) do and got in the slow flowing molasses of the masses. As we moved along we had a chance to see some of the statues, reliquaries, and early religious paintings decorating the niches and walls of the church. As we progressed, the presence of Vatican security became increasingly palpable (or is that papalble?) and every now and then we were subjected to a pat-down and going over by the guard.
As we neared a white-clotheed, tent-like structure set up in front of and just 10 yards from the centrally-located altar, my heart began beating wildly, and I could tell that Steffi, too, was starting to shake a bit from the anticipation. Were we really about to meet the Pope? And on the one day we just happened to be in Rome and the Vatican? When we moved to the head of the line, a guard made it clear that only one of us would be allowed to pass through the drapery doors of the tent. Steffi, obviously, would go first, and then wait for me on the other side. I still have a lucid mental picture of her striding up to the white folds of the entrance, accompanied by a black-garbed "watcher". At the last second, before the material parted, she stole a quick glance back at me, smiling this scintillatingly brilliant and sneaky smile, almost as if to say, "I'm the last person in hell who deserves to see the Pope."
I waited an interminable two minutes until I, too, was allowed past the black metal crowd control fences and led into the tent...
When I came out the other side, Steffi was waiting for me, barely able to breathe, gesturing widely and advancing to hug me with a fervor that wasn't out of place, considering what the two of us had just witnessed and experienced.
"Wasn't that the most amazing thing ever?" she said to me in German, embracing me warmly. I nodded, letting her pull my head down onto her shoulder and trying not to let too many of my own tears escape down my glowing face. "I can't believe," she said, "he gave me a blessing! I've never really thought much of the guy and his Papal authority."
I, too, had been wholly (or holy?) engulfed into what had just happened to me. Inside that tent, the little, stooped Polish man clad in his white robes had received me with kindness and a charisma that I will never forget. He stretched out his right hand to me, which I took without a thought, and nodded. With his left he motioned that I advance, and as I did, he placed that same hand behind my neck and drew me closer, hovering his mouth above my ear. In a single breath, he whispered, just barely audible to me, "If I ever fall into a coma or persistent vegetative state, I want you to make sure that, when brain-death is certain, that the feeding tubes be removed."
***
Hey, there were only three hours left...
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