Salve famiglia e amici. It has been about three weeks since my arrival in Viterbo and already I have forged pleasant bonds and friendships with many of the USAC students. They come from all over the country especially California, Nevada, Idaho, Iowa, and Maryland. Why Maryland joins the Northwest I cannot answer. Additionally, Hanna is from South Korea and Robert is from nearby Holland. Two or three times a week a relatively large group of us meet at someone’s apartment for dinner and spirits; often at Via Bussi or the Plague Apartments, where the Viterbese isolated plague victims in the 14th and 15th centuries. After perhaps a dozen of these gatherings, I volunteered my apartment (Piazza della Morte) for last Thursday evening’s dinner. After finishing class at 3:30 PM on Thursday, I did one last shopping for dinner and hustled home.Unfortunately, I am prone to procrastination so I did not begin preparing dinner until 6:00 PM. Italians, and hence we, generally begin dinner around 8:00 PM. The main dish was Eggplant Rollatini, for which I must thank my future sister-in-law, Krissy, and the Olivieri family for providing me. Breaded eggplant, baked and stuffed with ricotta cheese, and topped with mozzarella and tomato sauce. Unfortunately (yes, this evening was heading in an unfortunate direction), I, in my haste and relative lack of cooking finesse proceeded to bread the eggplant by first mixing the egg with the bread crumbs. Needless to say, ew. Around 6:30 PM my friend, Chelsea, called to check on me and corrected me to dip the eggplant in the egg and then in the breadcrumbs. I booked it to Despar, the local grocery store and spent way too long searching for breadcrumbs, which I learned are pan grattato.
On my way home I began thinking that dinner would go terribly wrong, but I kept reminding myself to stay positive and keep moving. Despite failing to include where milk fit into the recipe, once I returned to the kitchen counter I proceeded to pound out “one hell of a meal” as multiple diners complimented it. Two batches of rattolini came out great and went quickly. My friends brought plenty of bread, cheese, and wine. I also made a kilo of spaghetti and a large pot full of red sauce with sautéed onions, garlic, tomatoes, and peppers (I like my sauce chunky). Though in my haste I neglected to take a picture of my completed dish, everyone left full and there were no leftovers. And to think I was on the brink of ordering pizzas.
On my way home I began thinking that dinner would go terribly wrong, but I kept reminding myself to stay positive and keep moving. Despite failing to include where milk fit into the recipe, once I returned to the kitchen counter I proceeded to pound out “one hell of a meal” as multiple diners complimented it. Two batches of rattolini came out great and went quickly. My friends brought plenty of bread, cheese, and wine. I also made a kilo of spaghetti and a large pot full of red sauce with sautéed onions, garlic, tomatoes, and peppers (I like my sauce chunky). Though in my haste I neglected to take a picture of my completed dish, everyone left full and there were no leftovers. And to think I was on the brink of ordering pizzas.
The World's Most Lavish Garden
Way too early the next morning, a large handful of us met at the Porta Fiorentina taxi stand to catch a bus for a field trip for our Italian Gardens class. Our first stop would be Frascati, but driving there for well over an hour reminded me of the train ride to Rome. The best way to describe the countryside through which railways and highways crisscross is that it looks exactly like you would think it does. Rolling green hills, large vineyards and orchards, sheep grazing, and hilltop towns make every daytime trip to and fro almost as beautiful as our destinations.
Frascati was one such hilltop town, from the top of which one can just barely see the St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome through the misty distance. Our purpose for this trip was to visit the garden of Villa Belvedere, which I learned means “Beautiful View.” (Tell that to Jerry’s Belvedere on Northern Parkway and York Road). A beautiful view it was. Villa Belvedere was 
a gift from Pope Clements VIII to Aldo Brandini for delivering the powerful city of Ferrara to the Papal States in 1599. Though the 
main house is imposing and the garden elegant, I became bored after thirty minutes. Either there is not much to see or not much we are allowed to see. The central statue and fountain in the backyard is of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. Perfectly aligned with the back door to the house, above Atlas is a set of stairs surrounded by tall hedges. Though a pretty sight, we essentially looked no further.
I was eager to find a bar for lunch. In Italy, bars and cafes are essentially the same locale, but you stand at the bar to avoid being charged a small fee. At the nearest bar, I spotted a wine
bottle boasting a picture of the villa we just visited. It was relatively cheap, so I bought a bottle—later finding out that Frascati wine is among the most coveted in central Italy—with the intention of serving it with chicken sometime in the next few weeks. We took in the distant view of Rome for a few minutes before piling back on our bus to our next stop: Tivoli.
Many rolling hills and grazing sheep later, we arrived in Tivoli and walked to its central feature, Villa D’Este. I was not fully prepared for the incredible beauty of this palace befitting a king. Its first occupant was Cardinal Ippolito II d'Este, a powerful man of the D’Este family of Ferrara. A bishop by age twenty, he sought the position of Pope five times, never having attained it. Aware of D’Este’s ambition, Pope Julius III appointed D’Este the governor of Tivoli, both to occupy the ambitious cardinal and to keep him close to Rome.
D’Este built a most beautiful mansion, but its garden is truly a breathtaking treasure. Just one peek outside widened my eyes and slighted my head in awe. Set on the side of a hill (as is necessary is most central Italian 
towns), ornate fountains litter the gardens set at deliberate intervals such that one can only hear and see the running water of the fountain before him. Several walls in the garden boast humanlike 
statues spitting continuous streams of drinking water, flanked by signs displaying encouragement and permission to drink its refreshing and surprisingly tasty clean water. Walkways 
become displays all of their own, like this one featuring monkeys under flat sprays all covered in moss. This boat, I noticed, was not a very good boat if it contained enough water to fill a 
fountain, but its adjacent fountain and magnanimous view to the rear comprised a scene that even Hollywood has 
not managed to capture.
Way too early the next morning, a large handful of us met at the Porta Fiorentina taxi stand to catch a bus for a field trip for our Italian Gardens class. Our first stop would be Frascati, but driving there for well over an hour reminded me of the train ride to Rome. The best way to describe the countryside through which railways and highways crisscross is that it looks exactly like you would think it does. Rolling green hills, large vineyards and orchards, sheep grazing, and hilltop towns make every daytime trip to and fro almost as beautiful as our destinations.
Frascati was one such hilltop town, from the top of which one can just barely see the St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome through the misty distance. Our purpose for this trip was to visit the garden of Villa Belvedere, which I learned means “Beautiful View.” (Tell that to Jerry’s Belvedere on Northern Parkway and York Road). A beautiful view it was. Villa Belvedere was 
a gift from Pope Clements VIII to Aldo Brandini for delivering the powerful city of Ferrara to the Papal States in 1599. Though the 
main house is imposing and the garden elegant, I became bored after thirty minutes. Either there is not much to see or not much we are allowed to see. The central statue and fountain in the backyard is of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. Perfectly aligned with the back door to the house, above Atlas is a set of stairs surrounded by tall hedges. Though a pretty sight, we essentially looked no further.I was eager to find a bar for lunch. In Italy, bars and cafes are essentially the same locale, but you stand at the bar to avoid being charged a small fee. At the nearest bar, I spotted a wine
bottle boasting a picture of the villa we just visited. It was relatively cheap, so I bought a bottle—later finding out that Frascati wine is among the most coveted in central Italy—with the intention of serving it with chicken sometime in the next few weeks. We took in the distant view of Rome for a few minutes before piling back on our bus to our next stop: Tivoli.
Many rolling hills and grazing sheep later, we arrived in Tivoli and walked to its central feature, Villa D’Este. I was not fully prepared for the incredible beauty of this palace befitting a king. Its first occupant was Cardinal Ippolito II d'Este, a powerful man of the D’Este family of Ferrara. A bishop by age twenty, he sought the position of Pope five times, never having attained it. Aware of D’Este’s ambition, Pope Julius III appointed D’Este the governor of Tivoli, both to occupy the ambitious cardinal and to keep him close to Rome.
D’Este built a most beautiful mansion, but its garden is truly a breathtaking treasure. Just one peek outside widened my eyes and slighted my head in awe. Set on the side of a hill (as is necessary is most central Italian 
towns), ornate fountains litter the gardens set at deliberate intervals such that one can only hear and see the running water of the fountain before him. Several walls in the garden boast humanlike 
statues spitting continuous streams of drinking water, flanked by signs displaying encouragement and permission to drink its refreshing and surprisingly tasty clean water. Walkways 
become displays all of their own, like this one featuring monkeys under flat sprays all covered in moss. This boat, I noticed, was not a very good boat if it contained enough water to fill a 
fountain, but its adjacent fountain and magnanimous view to the rear comprised a scene that even Hollywood has 
not managed to capture.
This fountain was by far the garden’s centerpiece. Its left side contains a perpetual rainbow. Visitors can walk behind the vertical streams on second and third levels. Pausing at its side towers, I sat to rest on its corner. Surprisingly enough, the garden contained no benches, I think, to keep visitors moving as tourists overwhelm (and probably ruin the experience of) Italy’s most beloved manipulation of nature each summer. Looking 
down at the gushing stream of water next to me, I spent a few minutes watching unusually 
large individual water droplets rise and fall. At this point I noticed that the group, which until this point mostly kept together, had dispersed. Solo at last, I made my way to the back of the garden, which I think faced north. Looking over a city in such a manner, it is not difficult to understand how Renaissance-era 
aristocrats socially stratified themselves over their—physically—inferior townsmen and women. Oh, and I found this fountain of a goddess with fifteen breasts gushing water.
As I returned toward the garden’s beginning, I began walking more quickly when I heard the faint sound of an organ playing. As I climbed the stairs behind the main fountain, I saw an organ playing, but no organ player. My teacher explained to me that the water pressure from the adjacent fountain connected to the organ’s pipes below the ground, providing enough pressure to adequately sound the organ’s pipes and create a unique concerto unlike any other it has or ever will make.After the impromptu concert ended, my teacher guided several of us to our
bus, pausing to enjoy an indoor portico mosaic that allows water to continually flow through it to the gardens outside. I grabbed a slice of pizza before heading to the bus and grabbing my weekend bag. Outside of the bus, a handful of us waved goodbye before trekking to a fermata (bus stop) and bought bus tickets to Rome. Yes, I was heading back.Shabbat at the Vatican
Because we boarded a city bus, it took at least an hour to reach a fermata that doubled as a Metro stop. Halfway through our Metro trip to Termini, a
ragazzo (boy) of about fifteen boarded the train sporting (no joke) an accordion. He played it beautifully to the encouragement of my fellow Americans and me. We collectively gave him a euro before departing at Termini, where we met Derek, Chelsea, and a few others. Derek and I grabbed a macchiato while waiting for an apparent other group of USAC students enroute from Viterbo. Our rather large group met and proceeded to our hostel, Hotel Acropoli.
After settling in, we quickly changed into our eveningwear and headed out on the town for the night. Our destination was the famed Spanish Steps where we planned to meet a guide from the Spanish Steps Bar Crawl—an organization that escorts tourists to three (though I could have sworn I heard five) Roman bars with a few free drinks for only 20 euro. Upon our arrival we realized how much time we had to kill, opting to grab some pizza
and purchase a bottle of wine. I opted to buy two small bottles as red wine tends to make me sleepy (though I am building a tolerance) and I just do not prefer white wine. I immediately regretted my choice, however, as everyone popped their corks while I unscrewed mine. We walked to Fontana di 
Trevi (see my blog dated 1/20/2009) and then to a McDonalds. I have personally sworn not to eat McDonalds during this trip whatsoever, but I could not help but laugh at the site of statues and ancient-looking plaques adorning this sham of a restaurant.
We regrouped at the top of the Spanish Steps at 8:00 PM. I regretfully have no pictures worth sharing of this view, but I plan to fulfill that at my
earliest opportunity. Meanwhile, our group eagerly joined the pub crawl and made our way to Bar #1. At Bar #1 we drank all the free Carlsberg we could drink as we introduced ourselves to our fellow pub-crawlers, all of whom were either American or British. I am proud to say that Chelsea won the beer chugging contest and was crowned the Female Beer Chugging Champion. U-S-A!
After an hour concluded, we finished our beers and exited. My friend, the other Alex, tried slipping out of the bar with two beers hidden under his jacket. An attentive bouncer stopped him, cautioning, “If Carabinieri sees you, you will be in big trouble.” The other Alex assured the bouncer that he had neither beer nor anything to worry about. As the other Alex proceeded to climb the stairs, both beers fell out from under his jacket and shattered on the floor. No language barriers exist for the looks traded between this humiliated American and head-shaking Italian.
Three blocks later, we were guided onto a bus which would take us to Bar #2. “Only five minutes,” they assured us. Almost twenty-five minutes later, we exited the bus and a line of at least two dozen ragazzi formed at the end of the parking lot/urinal. As we entered the bar, a live band of Italian men began covering U2, terribly. I walked by the pool tables, hoping to hustle a few rounds of drinks, but every pool table was occupied by a creeper Italian guy trying to teach a British girl how to play.
I eased into a stool at the bar, oblivious to the figurative massacre of Sunday Bloody Sunday, and examined the menu. Looking to save my money, I waited five minutes to order a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey for 3 euro. Another five minutes later, the bartender delivered a whiskey and coke, 2 euro short of the change I was owed. Inebriated enough to forget our program director’s advice to take what’s delivered, I protested that he gave me the wrong drink and shorted my change. Either unable to understand or unwilling to care he moved on to the next customer. I intercepted his conversation, demanding my 2 euro. He just walked away. Furious, I began pounding my fist on the bar, chanting, “Solo Jameson! Solo Jameson!” (Only Jameson). My heavy pounding prompted the whiskey and coke, still standing untouched, to tip over and spill on the bar. My protest did not halt and within moments a rather large bouncer tapped my shoulder and led me out of the bar (to put it lightly). He began yelling at me in English and I calmly responded with the events that happened. I demanded to receive my money back, insisting that I was in complete control of myself. Within minutes of bantering back and forth, I persuaded the bouncer to let me back inside and give me a pass for a free drink. I examined the menu carefully, ordering the most
expensive one: the Americano. Though in retrospect I can laugh at the experience, at the time I was, needless to say, angry.
Because we boarded a city bus, it took at least an hour to reach a fermata that doubled as a Metro stop. Halfway through our Metro trip to Termini, a
ragazzo (boy) of about fifteen boarded the train sporting (no joke) an accordion. He played it beautifully to the encouragement of my fellow Americans and me. We collectively gave him a euro before departing at Termini, where we met Derek, Chelsea, and a few others. Derek and I grabbed a macchiato while waiting for an apparent other group of USAC students enroute from Viterbo. Our rather large group met and proceeded to our hostel, Hotel Acropoli.After settling in, we quickly changed into our eveningwear and headed out on the town for the night. Our destination was the famed Spanish Steps where we planned to meet a guide from the Spanish Steps Bar Crawl—an organization that escorts tourists to three (though I could have sworn I heard five) Roman bars with a few free drinks for only 20 euro. Upon our arrival we realized how much time we had to kill, opting to grab some pizza
and purchase a bottle of wine. I opted to buy two small bottles as red wine tends to make me sleepy (though I am building a tolerance) and I just do not prefer white wine. I immediately regretted my choice, however, as everyone popped their corks while I unscrewed mine. We walked to Fontana di 
Trevi (see my blog dated 1/20/2009) and then to a McDonalds. I have personally sworn not to eat McDonalds during this trip whatsoever, but I could not help but laugh at the site of statues and ancient-looking plaques adorning this sham of a restaurant.We regrouped at the top of the Spanish Steps at 8:00 PM. I regretfully have no pictures worth sharing of this view, but I plan to fulfill that at my
earliest opportunity. Meanwhile, our group eagerly joined the pub crawl and made our way to Bar #1. At Bar #1 we drank all the free Carlsberg we could drink as we introduced ourselves to our fellow pub-crawlers, all of whom were either American or British. I am proud to say that Chelsea won the beer chugging contest and was crowned the Female Beer Chugging Champion. U-S-A!After an hour concluded, we finished our beers and exited. My friend, the other Alex, tried slipping out of the bar with two beers hidden under his jacket. An attentive bouncer stopped him, cautioning, “If Carabinieri sees you, you will be in big trouble.” The other Alex assured the bouncer that he had neither beer nor anything to worry about. As the other Alex proceeded to climb the stairs, both beers fell out from under his jacket and shattered on the floor. No language barriers exist for the looks traded between this humiliated American and head-shaking Italian.
Three blocks later, we were guided onto a bus which would take us to Bar #2. “Only five minutes,” they assured us. Almost twenty-five minutes later, we exited the bus and a line of at least two dozen ragazzi formed at the end of the parking lot/urinal. As we entered the bar, a live band of Italian men began covering U2, terribly. I walked by the pool tables, hoping to hustle a few rounds of drinks, but every pool table was occupied by a creeper Italian guy trying to teach a British girl how to play.
I eased into a stool at the bar, oblivious to the figurative massacre of Sunday Bloody Sunday, and examined the menu. Looking to save my money, I waited five minutes to order a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey for 3 euro. Another five minutes later, the bartender delivered a whiskey and coke, 2 euro short of the change I was owed. Inebriated enough to forget our program director’s advice to take what’s delivered, I protested that he gave me the wrong drink and shorted my change. Either unable to understand or unwilling to care he moved on to the next customer. I intercepted his conversation, demanding my 2 euro. He just walked away. Furious, I began pounding my fist on the bar, chanting, “Solo Jameson! Solo Jameson!” (Only Jameson). My heavy pounding prompted the whiskey and coke, still standing untouched, to tip over and spill on the bar. My protest did not halt and within moments a rather large bouncer tapped my shoulder and led me out of the bar (to put it lightly). He began yelling at me in English and I calmly responded with the events that happened. I demanded to receive my money back, insisting that I was in complete control of myself. Within minutes of bantering back and forth, I persuaded the bouncer to let me back inside and give me a pass for a free drink. I examined the menu carefully, ordering the most
expensive one: the Americano. Though in retrospect I can laugh at the experience, at the time I was, needless to say, angry.A lengthy bus ride later, we arrived at Bar #3. Still fuming from the lack of manners, I insisted on speaking with the manager of the Bar Crawl, who weakly defended Bar #2, saying that they were improving. I do not recommend the Spanish Steps Bar Crawl to anyone. I hear the Coliseum Bar Crawl, among others, are much more enjoyable.
Meanwhile, the Americano brought me to a point where I was convinced that I was a good dancer, proceeding to demonstrate this to all of the girls we came with. Surprisingly enough, only minimal fun was made of me the next day. Soon enough, my friends informed me of our departure. After making my exit, someone to my right hollered to follow this way. As I turned to walk, I face-planted on the unforgiving cobblestone sidewalk. Two attempts to stand later, Felicia guided me to the bus to go home. In over my head and mildly bruised, she led me into the hostel, up two flights of stairs and into a bedroom with five beds for Derek, Felicia, the other Alex, Corrin, and myself.
I slept terribly and awoke feeling all sorts of “ow.” I beckoned Derek to join me for a miserable stumble to the nearest bar for acqua grande (1.5 liters of water), before returning to our hostel. Some time later, everyone emerged from the hostel. Most of the group opted to spend the day shopping and site-seeing, but Derek, Chelsea, Lauren, Nick, Felicia, and I chose to spend our Shabbat at the Vatican.
Though I do not feel the need to explain much about the prominence of Vatican City, I should explain a few things. A twenty-foot stone wall surrounds the world’s smallest country in size and population (0.5 square miles and 900 people), though no passport is needed for entry. Its two most visited sites are the Vatican Museum and the Basilica of St. Peter, which we would visit in that order.
We chose not to take the tour, knowing that sometime soon we will revisit with our Renaissance History professor, Ellen Kittell of the University of Idaho. I couldn’t help but crack jokes for a bit until we entered the hall of Roman statues, many of whom I knew and several of whom I recognized on sight. Derek nudged me on past a sign that pointed toward the Sistine
Chapel, the apex of the museum. Past another hall of statues lied a giant, marble, purple bathtub constructed at the order of Nero, a second-century emperor noted for his mental instability and love of public games. Through the next door lied a courtyard containing several sarcophagi and more 
statues, one of which I wholly recognized. This fellow, Laocoon, lived in Troy during the Trojan Wars against the Greeks. The only Trojan to protest the gift of the Trojan Horse, he and his sons were thrown into a snake pit. Through the next door was the hall of animal 
statues. Lions, sheep, goats, dogs, wolves, and many other animals adorned this spacious outdoor room. Several of the statues depicted animals fighting humans or other animals.Through the next door we entered the Egyptian room, a hall of historical treasures plundered by Roman armies and historians long ago. As I took 
my time inspecting the many ancient writings, gems and even mummies, I lost track of my companions and found myself alone. Relatively uninterested by much of the Egyptian room, I paused to take note of the Assyrian room, for several of their emperors profoundly impacted the Jewish people. Sargon II, Senacharib, and others lost a few objects to the later Roman plunderers, ending up in the Vatican.
Following more signs leading to the Sistine Chapel, I slowly passed through a hall of giant carpets embroidered with ominous scenes from the New Testament. A few rooms later, I arrived in the Hall of Cartography, where the walls hung full of large Renaissance paintings of the pre-modern Italian world. I took my time looking at each painting, trying to determine where it was (nothing was in English), what assumptions the cartographer/painter
made about the geography, and what orientation he employed (some of the maps reversed north and south). I took careful note of Sicily, though unable to find my great-grandmother’s village where I plan to journey during spring break. As I passed the painting/map of Etrusca, I carefully looked for and found Viterbo, the city in which I currently reside.
Through many more rooms I found many signs directing me to the Sistine Chapel and many rooms that were not the Sistine Chapel. I hastened my pace, pausing infrequently to admire something I admired. The modern art room grabs at my memory as I remember wondering why such pithy and history-lacking art deserved to adorn one of the world’s largest treasure chests. Soon enough, I found the Sistine Chapel and my friends who made their way there two hours prior. Wow. There simply are not words to adequately describe the beauty that is this giant room. The wall by the
entrance features a single mammoth painting of Jesus and Mary at the center on a cloud, with angels huddling around them and flying, while beneath them demons gather at the gates to Hell. Derek mentioned to me that Michelangelo used his own face as the template for a flayed skin that represented the early Christians whose skins were flayed for their practices. The gatekeeper to Hell was modeled off of a Renaissance-era art critic who apparently gave Michelangelo poor reviews. The ceiling contains multiple portraits of Genesis, including G-d’s creation of darkness 
and light, the Great Flood, and the room’s most famous painting, of G-d eagerly outstretching His arm to a relaxed Adam. Chelsea was crying from the overwhelming omnipotence of the room, while Asian teenagers took flash photography despite stern warnings from a Vatican employee (No foto!). I just marveled. Priceless. Michelangelo spent two straight years painting this room before trying to retire. Derek told me his wish was not granted.
my time inspecting the many ancient writings, gems and even mummies, I lost track of my companions and found myself alone. Relatively uninterested by much of the Egyptian room, I paused to take note of the Assyrian room, for several of their emperors profoundly impacted the Jewish people. Sargon II, Senacharib, and others lost a few objects to the later Roman plunderers, ending up in the Vatican.Following more signs leading to the Sistine Chapel, I slowly passed through a hall of giant carpets embroidered with ominous scenes from the New Testament. A few rooms later, I arrived in the Hall of Cartography, where the walls hung full of large Renaissance paintings of the pre-modern Italian world. I took my time looking at each painting, trying to determine where it was (nothing was in English), what assumptions the cartographer/painter
made about the geography, and what orientation he employed (some of the maps reversed north and south). I took careful note of Sicily, though unable to find my great-grandmother’s village where I plan to journey during spring break. As I passed the painting/map of Etrusca, I carefully looked for and found Viterbo, the city in which I currently reside.Through many more rooms I found many signs directing me to the Sistine Chapel and many rooms that were not the Sistine Chapel. I hastened my pace, pausing infrequently to admire something I admired. The modern art room grabs at my memory as I remember wondering why such pithy and history-lacking art deserved to adorn one of the world’s largest treasure chests. Soon enough, I found the Sistine Chapel and my friends who made their way there two hours prior. Wow. There simply are not words to adequately describe the beauty that is this giant room. The wall by the
entrance features a single mammoth painting of Jesus and Mary at the center on a cloud, with angels huddling around them and flying, while beneath them demons gather at the gates to Hell. Derek mentioned to me that Michelangelo used his own face as the template for a flayed skin that represented the early Christians whose skins were flayed for their practices. The gatekeeper to Hell was modeled off of a Renaissance-era art critic who apparently gave Michelangelo poor reviews. The ceiling contains multiple portraits of Genesis, including G-d’s creation of darkness 
and light, the Great Flood, and the room’s most famous painting, of G-d eagerly outstretching His arm to a relaxed Adam. Chelsea was crying from the overwhelming omnipotence of the room, while Asian teenagers took flash photography despite stern warnings from a Vatican employee (No foto!). I just marveled. Priceless. Michelangelo spent two straight years painting this room before trying to retire. Derek told me his wish was not granted.After leaving the Sistine Chapel (I still think my Cousin Johanna's house has more angel sculptures) we anxiously made our way through the remaining exhibits. It’s hard to be awed by anything after an hour (or three hours for them) in that beautiful room. After leaving the Sistine Chapel we walked to St. Peters. Upon entering the piazza we learned that it was 
brought to you by WIND, Italy’s leading wireless network. I hate WIND and do not think I will ever curse Verizon again. Despite this inappropriately large advertisement, the piazza is beautiful and spacious. A large fountain occupies one side, while a nativity scene and gigantic Christmas tree occupy the center. And I thought my Cousin Sandra took forever to take down her Christmas tree.
brought to you by WIND, Italy’s leading wireless network. I hate WIND and do not think I will ever curse Verizon again. Despite this inappropriately large advertisement, the piazza is beautiful and spacious. A large fountain occupies one side, while a nativity scene and gigantic Christmas tree occupy the center. And I thought my Cousin Sandra took forever to take down her Christmas tree.
Finally we entered the basilica and I am positively sure that I have never seen a larger or more ornate house of worship. I lack the capacity to accurately describe this gargantuan dome, but I will try for my readers’ sake. We skipped the papal tombs and headed straight for the basilica itself. An enormous chapel lies directly in front of the entrance. To the right lies a memorial of the Virgin Mary. To Mary’s left are several 
sarcophagi containing the corpses of two popes. To the left of the central alter is another huge chapel. At this chapel’s center lies the worlds largest alter (or so Derek said). Just before we turned away a priest emerged from a random spot in the wall, prompting a conversation among us on how many secret passageways there must be in this dedication to the Church’s first pope. Tired from many hours of exploring the museum, we opted not to climb to the basilica’s top (for a fee) and instead departed to meet our friends, Hanna and Katie at Termini. Nothing like visiting the Vatican for Shabbat.After meeting the girls at Termini we grabbed some pizza and returned to the hostel for the girls to drop off their bags. While the group left for a cocktail, I finished a book and took a much-needed nap. Around 7:30 PM, Derek woke me up for dinner. On his advice, we chose to go to a specific Indian restaurant, which was excellent. Due to my disdain for the bar crawl, Derek challenged me to show the group the Simone Bar Crawl. I did not back down.
I was surprised to find that I knew exactly where we were and exactly where I wanted to take the group: back to La Botticella where I watched the AFC Championship game two weeks prior, stopping in Piazza Navona and Campo di Fiori—two lively neighborhoods—along the way. My memory proved correct and we had a great time out on Saturday night. I struck up a conversation with three Italian beauties and proudly introduced my friends to them, “Ti presento mi amici americani, Nick e Derek.” (It works every time). The girls giggled and talked to us for a while until the rest of our crew decided it was time to leave. We all traded kisses on each cheek, but not before Sonya taught me the word schegliere (to choose), making sure that I spelled it correctly in my little black book.
We hung out in Piazza Navona for a bit before heading to La Botticella, where Giovanni and his sidekick Lucca greeted me warmly. I introduced the gang to Giovanni and he informed us that more pictures of me adorn the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. We bought a few rounds and I wished him bad luck in the Super Bowl. Turned out, I only have good luck to rub off on people.The neighborhood began to close and I offered the idea of heading to the Scholar’s Lounge, knowing it would be open for at least another hour. Almost everyone spoke English—hailing from the US or Britain—and I encountered three people there who stupidly put their jacket somewhere
and lost it, along with their passports. The bouncer, Jimmy, was one of the largest men I have met in this country (much bigger than the Bar #2 bouncer). His picture does not do justice to the sheer power this tank of a 
man possesses. Inside the Scholar’s Lounge, sports games from all over the world (especially soccer) pipe in through a dozen flat-screen televisions. American rock music dominates the playlist, including some of my favorites, to which I proceeded to rock out.Two pints later, we all decided to leave. Derek and the girls hailed a taxi, but Nick, Brooks and I preferred to save the money and walk. About fifteen minutes into our walk it began raining. I assured my companions that I knew exactly where we were going. I was mostly telling them the truth. Just as Brooks decided that we shouldn’t follow the guy who had drank the most this evening, we spot Termini. I feel proud, but mostly wet.
I climb into a bed between Chelsea, Derek and Nick. Chelsea snored all night. The next morning all of the alarms on our phones rang simultaneously at 9:30 AM: thirty minutes before we had to check out. We gather our belongings and proceed to Termini. The next train leaves Ostiense—where Derek informed me is the best departure point from Rome—in two hours. We spend most of that time wandering through the English section of the bookstore—the only English bookstore I have seen since my arrival. Thinking I may learn something new about the city, I purchase The Merchant of Venice, only to learn more about British Renaissance culture and how damn anti-Semitic they were. Eat it Shakespeare.
We board our train just in time and uncomfortably travel back to Viterbo through the same rolling hills and grazing sheep as before. I find a position that is adequately comfortable and take a nap, which Derek capitalized on quickly. After our arrival and another nap, we watch the Super Bowl at Andrew’s Pub, beginning at 12:00 AM. All of us root for the Cardinals—except Chelsea. At 2:30, Andrew informs us that he is closing. None of us protest. I’ll tell the Steelers what they can do with that one for the thumb.- Friday, February 6, 2009 - 8:00 PM
1 comment:
I laughed and cried. Great post!
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