North Shore Amour

I went to London for a week for business, so my leisure time was very limited. I did, however, spend some of that time trying to mimic the life of a Londoner: I watched bowls on TV, I drank ciders over ice at the pub, and I happily splashed my way through puddles in the chill October rain in my best work shoes. My umbrella became an extension of my arm, ever at the ready, deftly maneuvering under scaffolding and lifted high to wade through crowded street corners.

I also showed my truer American colors. I hummed Mary Poppins songs to myself while I navigated the streets; I shuffled confusedly through the pounds in my palm (why is the two pence piece so BIG?); and I routinely looked the wrong way on the street and stepped out into traffic, requiring a few heroic rescues from passersby.

Right now the Tower of London is hosting an amazing art installation, where the field outside of the tower is being gradually filled with ceramic poppies. The goal is to make and place enough poppies to represent every British military fatality during the first World War. It is moving when you stand and look over the field of red, especially when considering the installation’s title: Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red.

I stayed in a hotel near St. Paul’s cathedral.

I love this view, where it appears that St. Paul’s is floating above the River Thames:

I used the river as a reference point. On the north side, I made my way to Big Ben:

I loved the tour of Westminster. It holds so much special history.

I also walked all along the south side of the river. I felt that the surroundings invited me to stroll.

Borough Market

I checked. It was most decidedly not falling down.

I did have one night off to myself. I sat on the steps of St. Paul’s, bought a cup of fruit, read my book and watched people until it got dark.

I think London is smashing.

I have fallen in love with Rome three times: at first, by myself; a second time, with many friends; and now a third time, alongside a few people close to my heart. Roma Aeterna.

Parte Uno:

The first time I went to Rome, I was 21. It was my senior year of college and it was time to make spring break plans: I heard "Cabo!" and "Cancun!" and "PCB, baby!" from my classmates, but my sights were set on Europe. I wanted to go so badly. It seemed to me to be an opportunity for a great adventure before I started whatever phase of life was going to come next. So when no one volunteered to give up the beach party and bottomless drinks and come with me, I decided to go. Alone.

Lucky (very lucky) for me, I had a contact: my friend Martina. Martina came from Bologna to study geology in the USA and we had many classes together. We camped out and traveled a bit together, and we became friends. Martina had since returned home, so I contacted her. Martina promised that I could come in March and stay with her family for a few days in Bologna, and then she would accompany me to Florence, and then Rome.

On a very cold Geology field trip in Canada

I will have to write about Bologna some other time, because I have so many good things to say about the hospitality of Martina and her mother and father and sister, who made room for me in their flat and fed me and included me in the inner workings of the life of a real Italian family. Instead I will skip ahead to Rome, where I ate hot roasted chestnuts out of a paper cone, hair up and shoulders snugly wrapped in a stylish new scarf Martina had bought and, laughing, swirled around my neck. (It is worth noting here that the chestnut man tried to cheat Martina out of 5 euro – she gave him a 10 and he gave her change back as if she had given him a 5. She stomped and yelled at him in Italian and made rude gestures for many minutes before he relented. I was very impressed.)

My time was too short to see everything (can you ever see everything?), but I saw much. I climbed the 320 steps to the top of St. Peter’s basilica, up the cramped stairway, breathing heavily and heart beating in my chest. Once I reached the top and stood on the roof, taking in the whole city, my heart continued to beat hard even after my breathing had returned to normal. I felt brave, like I could do anything. I loved Rome for giving me an adventure, for showing me the importance of pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone, and for helping me believe in myself and my independence.

This has gotten quite soppy and sentimental, so let me also tell you what happened when I came home. I opted for the salmon dinner on my Air France flight. Rookie mistake. I cringe now to think of my poor college roommate, practically forced to evacuate our apartment due to my permanent residence in our small bathroom, my body made immobile from the muscles cramping in my back and stomach. I emerged only twice in 48 hours to moan and drag my limbs across the floor in what I imagine was a terrifying but quite realistic imitation of a zombie.

Roommate: “How was your trip?”

Me: “Mmmnnnngggguuuuuhhhhhh.”

Roommate: “Maybe we should go to school health clinic?”

Me: “Mmnnguh Mmnnngguuuhh.”

That very sweet girl did indeed bundle me into her car and take me to the health clinic, where next occurred one of the low moments of my life. There I was, near delirious from dehydration, face and body smeared with bodily fluids. And solids. REALLY. I was wild-eyed and barely able to remain upright.

Enter stage left the university doctor at the clinic that day, a young and good looking male resident with curly dark red hair and green eyes. I took another look – not just good looking. Very good looking. I sat up and smoothed my hair and pinched my cheeks when his back was turned. (Did I mention I was delirious?) He gently told me that they were going to give me a shot, which would make me feel better, allowing them to re-hydrate me. I started whimpering - I really hate shots - and my roommate said she’d stay in the room and hold my hand. The doctor came back with the needle and I started rolling up my sleeve. “Oh… um… no,” he said, awkwardly shuffling his feet. “This shot is quite strong. It must be administered,” … shuffle shuffle, “in the buttock muscle.”

This really happened. That doctor did not ask me on a date, which I realize is quite a shock. But I did get better, and that’s what you need to know. And now I should get back to Rome.

Parte Due:

I went back to Rome a few years later to take two classes with the program my law school was putting on. We studied international law and Catholic social thought during the months of July and August. It was oppressively hot and Rome was smelly. Most of the Romans wised up and got out of there for the entire month of August, really limiting our options when the shops were closed. We’d walk the meat aisles of the supermarket just to cool down. And yet, it was the best time. I was blessed to be on this trip with friends and classmates who were fun, and very very funny.

This trip was incredible in no small part because the law school set up so many opportunities for us. We had an audience with Pope Benedict. We went deeper into St. Peter’s, to the crypts and recent excavations, the Necropolis and the Tomb of St. Peter. We had private tours of every major site in Rome, provided by guides with extensive and academic interest in their city.

But beyond this, it was the everyday life that made it special. Staying in a place for a few months is very different than staying there for a few days. Figuring out how to cook ones meals, for example, provides an opportunity to expand beyond the “I don’t know, let’s just get some pizza” malaise that can affect Italian visitors. Don’t get me wrong. I ate a lot of pizza. But I also visited all kinds of markets (including one in the basement of a trendy clothing store, very strange) and small sidewalk-side shops selling cheese, meats, and bottles of local wine. I ate lots of salted tomato snacks. (This is a thing I made up where you slice tomatoes, salt them, and eat them. Very clever. I am sure no one has thought of it before.) We cooked large dinners and shared them, crowded around tables in our apartments, sweaty and laughing and re-hashing the days.

It was expensive, perhaps foolishly so when I was still a student on a student’s budget, but given the chance, I would do it all again.

Parte Tre:

And now I can finally come to this trip, Rome in September with Geoff. We met my parents for four sunny days (it only rained once, and we happened to be indoors at the Vatican at the time!) and we traipsed all across the city, including a few new places I hadn't visited or seen in my last two trips.

At my insistence Geoff and I stayed in Trastevere – my parents were just across the river in Campo de Fiori. Trastevere is a maze of shops, apartment buildings, trattorias, and piazzas. It is bordered on its west side by steep steps carrying you up the Janiculum hill, where we were offered breathtaking views of Rome.

We hit the big stuff with astounding speed: the Colosseum, the Forum, St. Clemente, Circus Maximus, the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Vatican Museums, St. Peter's Basilica. All the shuffling and jostling worth it to lay our eyes on thousands of years of history. (Note please that I am an excellent companion in pushy crowds, as I have very sharp elbows and a carefully cultivated stink eye.)

We used two private tour guides, which were excellent and I would recommend:

Rossella Natalino (Colosseum, Forum, St. Clemente)

Maria Grazia Lacroce (Vatican Museums and St. Peter's Basilica)

One thing that is always curious to me is the demand for silence in the Sistine Chapel. Yes, it is a holy place and yes, it would be great to be able to soundlessly contemplate the weight of the art history and spirituality of the space. But every 15 seconds or so, a man at a microphone bellows, "SILENCE! SILENZIO! SILENCIO!... AND NO PICTURES!" Though one might mistake his booming voice for the Voice of God, the Sistine Chapel is, quite obviously, not silent.

My blog tools give me metrics to see where visitors to my blog come from. I haven't seen any from Vatican City, but Pope Francis, in the event that you are reading, here is my proposed solution: invite school or church choirs from around the world to come and sing sacred choral music for half an hour apiece. This would provide two benefits: one, you'd give young people worldwide a one-in-a-lifetime experience that would bring them closer to the Church. Two, you'd drown out the annoying chatty chattersons in the chapel and allow visitors to enjoy the space with a backdrop of beautiful, holy music.

Here's what happened at the Vatican. We were walking along the front hall of St. Peter's, and to one side, a door flew open and cardinals began streaming through. They strode down the hall, hands folded, nodding and smiling to the people that parted to let them pass. Geoff and I stood off to one side. They continued to appear, cardinal after cardinal after cardinal. So many cardinals. Towards the end, one veered off towards our side. He walked right up to Geoff and I and said, "Are you English? You look rather English." Startled, we stared at him for a moment with our mouths open. He looked uncertain, perhaps regretting walking up to us, and said slowly, "Do... you... speak... English?" I jumped and croaked, unnaturally loudly, "WE'RE AMERICANS. FROM CHICAGO." Oh boy. Then we stood there a moment longer, I frantically wondered what you are supposed to do when you meet a cardinal. Was I supposed to call him your eminence? Your grace? Did he have a ring I was supposed to kiss? While I tried to stealthily look down to see if he was wearing one, I racked my brain for something profound to say and came up short. At the last moment I opened my mouth and said, "Where are all of you going? To a party or something?"

The cardinal (who I later found out was Vincent Nichols) chuckled kindly and said, "No, not quite. We just ended an audience with the Pope where he introduced the new bishops. Now we're going to pray."

"Okay!" I replied gamely. "Nice to meet you! Bye!" And we shook hands, and he shook hands with Geoff, and he carried on down the hall.

I've thought of a thousand things to say since then, but I suppose this was alright.

We did small things too. We spent time doing the slower, quieter, and less-well known things: strolling the streets, crowding in amongst the teenagers on the fountain in Piazza Santa Maria, stopping at random for cappuccinos, gelato, and window shopping.

Geoff and I walked all the way from Trastevere to the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran, which I had never seen before and loved on sight. We came home and drank wine on our rooftop terrace and watched the sky.