Sciopero!

No vacation in Italy is complete without a strike, and I got my fill on day 2. There was a public transportation strike on May 30, which meant that the buses and the metro weren’t running. Except for the lines that were. “Oh even when there’s a strike the Metro runs,” said the barista as he sold me my card. “They don’t even know if they’re going to strike or not.”

I love it here.

Since the apartment I stayed in was a ten minute walk to the Metro Linea A line I decided to start at the Vatican and spend the rest of the day heading back to Termini so I could buy my ticket to Florence. Sure enough it was running in spite of the strike (so were more than a few buses), and in a few minutes I was getting off with the other faithful at the stop of all stops.

The last time I was in Rome was just after Pope John Paul II died. Benedict had been Pope for a few months, if not a year—plenty of time to slap his likeness on the endless souvenirs that line the sidewalks radiating out from the Vatican. But no matter where I went the Pope John II souvenirs far outweighed Pope Benedict’s – at least 2 to 1. Why? He was a drag. I don’t think anyone ever heard him say “Discedite ex meus pratum”* after a free Wednesday sermon at St. Peter’s Square, but you never know.

If John Paul is the foundational measurement of Papal Coolness, Pope Frances is doing all right. His likeness is all over the place in Italy, and it’s nice to see. I know I’ve only been here three days but there seems to be a lightness to the place that has been missing for a while. I’m not Catholic but I really like Pope Frances. He took the Papacy at a delicate time in history, and he’s handling it with class and grace that you don’t often see. While John Paul II’s image still far outweighs Benedict’s (I’m here just after the Beatification of John Paul II and John XXIII, so this event may have more weight on the JP II enduring image factor) there’s a seemingly popular postcard of Frances and Benedict smiling at each other as Benedict’s about to board his Papal helicopter to freedom, no harm no foul.

I got into St. Peter’s Basilica by the skin of my teeth. I didn’t realize they closed at 12:30, so I made it though the security line and scraped side door that the guards hadn’t closed off yet. There were tons of tourists inside, but it was a good amount of people. No one was in anyone’s way, and we were allowed a respectful amount of time to visit by the guards who must have been dying to get to lunch. I spent the bulk of my time staring at the Pieta. I know from my studies that the Church blew way too much money on things it shouldn’t have, but watching a wheelchair-bound man overcome with emotion, sobbing at the foot  of the statue, was a testament to art’s place in the Church. Before we all got kicked out I got to see John Paul II’s tomb (last time I was there it was in a different place on a lower floor, I think), the main altar, and a full list of Popes in a side chapel that I didn’t know was there.

After that I started my trek back to Termini. I had a great touristy lunch at Piazza Navona, then rolled my way down to the Pantheon, my favorite spot in Rome. Peaceful and powerful, there’s nothing like it anywhere, and I always head in to zone out for as long as my spirit needs. Not coincidentally, the best granita con panna is just a few steps away in one of my other Roman haunts, so I get to kill two spiritual  birds in one trip.

I walked past the Trevi Fountain to get to the Spanish Steps to see the fabulous and catch the Metro back to Termini, where the strike was felt because it took about an hour to get my ticket. I took the Metro back to Pigneto and took one last walk up to Bar Necci to see where Pasolini hung out. John and Yoko, too, if the sign on the door holds any truth. If I had made reservations I could have eaten there, but it was pieno so I left wondering if John and Yoko ever met up with Pasolini there to talk about film and potential collaborations  (“Oh Pa John wants to do one on toenails!” “Ah, si, senz’altro, Yoko. Dimmi, Giovanni…”).

I said a sad goodbye to Rome and a joyful hello to Florence, and I’m off to see some sights.

 

*Bad Latin translation of, “Get off my lawn.”