Dispatch from the Vatican

We walk past the Golden Arches, symbol of the world’s second biggest franchise, to get into the headquarters of THE biggest.  Vatican City, latest seat of the Bishop of Rome, and an independent country since a handshake with Mussolini gave the deed to the Pope.  It is difficult to express my confusion at the immense wealth I see displayed here.  The subconscious's threat of eternal damnation fights to suppress my observant and historical mind.  I cannot easily connect the use of the trappings and pageantry of the Roman Emperors by the followers of a philosophy, which advises giving all you have to the poor.  Each Pope seems to have quarried whole mountains, or just scavenged from the previous pagan or Christian builders, to erect and then decorate a bigger and more grand edifice than his predecessors.  The names of Popes are carved in these marvels of stone, far more often than the name of the man they claim to glorify.  But I guess that explains why graffiti is an Italian word.

Here are faces and tongues from around the world.  The pilgrims and pickpockets, the clergy and clerics, the believers and the bewildered, all mingling as insignificant specks under the vast structures looming overhead.  A large German lady, climbing in front, up the 191 meters of spiral stairs to the top of Michelangelo’s dome of St. Peter’s.  Her spandex cavorting like two mating wolverines in a Hefty trash bag.  Thankfully, on reaching the top, the view changes to the truly heavenly, with the old city of Rome displayed across the Tiber River, all the way out to the Coliseum.  

Behind the huge statues of the saints the pragmatic side of this Papal theme park can be seen.  No pigeon poop is to be found on these holy heads as a system of high-tension wires, snakes up and down each stone shape.  I couldn’t help but wonder what St. Francis would make of his beloved birds being zapped when they attempted a landing on his outstretched hand.

From up here, one can look down into the Papal areas and tourists strain to perhaps catch a glimpse of the pontiff in his skivvies stretching and scratching.   Also from here, without standing in the long line, I get to see one of the most famed works of art in the western world - the Sistine Chapel.  The guidebook says Michelangelo got stuck for over 4 years painting the sucker.  But as I look down on it, I am not impressed.  The texture is monotonous and the colors, while warm and vibrant, are very much monochromatic.  However, if it is really some surface, other than just red tile, he was one hell of a painter.

OK, OK.  Jean has pointed out my mistake, and after pushing our way to the front of the line (when in Rome...) we sit in the painted majesty of the Chapel looking UP at the ceiling.  It is too big and grand to take in as a whole, so it is the small details that are set into memory.  Silence is demanded inside (as the loud speaker repetitively announces) so it is over dinner that we have a chance to compare notes.  Jean wonders why these most powerful male biblical characters were depicted with such insignificant equipment? Could it be that Michalangilo did not want to intimidate the papal prudes that objected to such full frontals, or could it just be that Jean is spoiled?  Sitting here in my insomnia, I am more intrigued by why such a renaissance man as Michalanglo, would paint Adam and Eve with belly buttons?

 - Roddi Renaissance