Roma!

Roma!

To my great chagrin, I discovered upon arriving that I do not, in fact, have access to the internet in my nifty little apartment, even though I had been informed otherwise. Instead, I must pay an hourly fee to use internet enabled computers in a small internet café a few blocks down the road. I’m afraid that I haven’t really missed it enough to pay the fee and actually find the place, but I have been able to get a shaky connection in the main lobby of the hotel, enough to quickly download my e-mail and upload a blog post, possibly. Supposedly we will have access when we return from Florence on the 22nd, but until then, expect few updates.

All that aside, I suppose I ought to begin with the experience of flying overseas. This was my second transatlantic flight, my first being a direct shot over the North Pole from Seattle to Copenhagen. Since we flew Air France, the “cast and crew” all were French, and seemed to each speak several languages. I had an interesting time trying to salvage the little French I had taken in highschool so that I could read the menu, understand the announcements, and maybe make my requests in French. In the end I was chicken, instead of “poulet,” and only managed to squeak out an embarrassed “merci” or “bonjour” when necessary. I’m fast getting over my self-consciousness about speaking a foreign language though, Madre is seeing to that. Besides, Italians seem to like it when you try your hand at their language, and I’ve heard that the French cannot bear to hear their language butchered by foreigners. Anyway, we had a layover in Paris, which is the most confusing and nonsensical airport I’ve ever set foot it. From there we flew to Rome, and I would have had a lovely view of the Alps if I had a window seat. An amusing incident happened on the transatlantic flight which I choose to title, “Behold the Power of Cheese.” I was sitting in the next to last row in the plan, in the aisle, and I heard a commotion coming from behind me, two men arguing heatedly. It steward and a passenger; the passenger was clearly trying to get something across, the steward was trying to give some sort of diplomatic refusal. “Oh no,” I thought, “drunk passenger threatening a steward, or worse, a terrorist trying to access forbidden somethingorother.” Finally the steward, thoroughly fed up with the whole thing, called another member of the flight crew on his phone. When the second steward arrived, the irate passenger turned on him and explained: “Look here, I’m just trying to explain to this gentleman here that I really love that kind of cheese that was served, so he gave me five pieces (instead of the usual one), and I want another one, but he won’t let me have it!” So that explained all the talk I had heard about airline policy, etc… The French and their cheese! It reminds me of Dr. Shannon’s clothesline: “Zee Calvinists are not nice people, they will take away our cheese!”

My first impression of Rome was that it is dirty. Trash everywhere, and graffiti on every open wall, garage, and shed. But somehow the city seems very small to me, and unintimidating, unlike Seattle, Chicago, or Washington DC. My apartment is very clean and nice, however, and Meredith and I are quite cosy here. I still can’t fathom that we have to walk through St. Peter’s square to go to class, and that I can just walk over there for daily or Sunday Mass, as if it were my parish church. We were given a whirlwind tour of the four major basilicas, and my favorite from the tour was St. Paul outside the walls, which I have dubbed, “The Pope Chart Church.” The beauty of that basilica comes from its vastness and its tasteful use of marble in many colors and textures. It is not as ornate as many of the basilicas, but its simplicity and immense scale give it a certain grandeur.
I’ve already visited the tombs of so many saints that I don’t think I can talk about each one here, but it’s an amazing feeling when you suddenly discover that a saint whom you had heard and read so much about is suddenly there in front of you, or to know that, yards away from where I am standing, and martyr gave up his life for our Faith. The other day I stumbled upon St. Gregory the Great in St. Peter’s, as well as John XXIII, the “Good Pope.” As I was standing in a small side chapel in Santa Prasede taking tour notes, and I happened to glace behind me and see, of all things, the Jasper Post of Christ’s flagellation. It’s hard to describe what it is like to be in the cramped dungeon where Peter and Paul were flung headlong, to touch the spot where the Consecrated host impressed itself upon marble, to look down from the great stadium where St. Ignatius of Antioch was fed to the lions. Rome is, indeed, a holy place.

On a more temporal note, I have already experienced gelato a few times, icecream addict that I am, and was not overly impressed by it, although I do enjoy the strong flavors, like chocolate that tastes like fudge. Tonight, however, Meredith and I rejoiced in the reopening of the Millia Gelateria, which had been closed for “the season.” This amazing place is less than a block from our residence on the same side of the street, offers an impressive selection of flavors, is of good quality, and tops your selection with whipped cream for no extra charge, all a price well below average. Meredith also discovered this morning that they make excellent cappuccino for less than 1 euro. Enough about food, except that pizza is better than pasta, imo.

The latest exciting news is that our entire group will be meeting Cardinal Arinze tomorrow morning (Monday). I am very much looking forward to that, as he is my favorite cardinal, if that is allowed.

Buona notte!