PAPAL ATTRACTION
The Vatican was the big one… I was in a mission to meet Pope Palpatine and learn the ways of the dark side of the force. I was sure to meet him somewhere along the corridors of the Vatican Museum, possibly in his bath-towel on his way to switch the heating on or something like that – somewhat affronted and surprised by my cry of “Hey Benny!”, almost choking on his Vatican Cocoa from his Vatican mug, before he mellows and says, “aw howerye” and brings me down into the Vatican vaults for some of the Vatican wine collection, using a few priceless medieval manuscripts to mop up the Pope’s wine spillage – he’s a messy drunk that one.
But that’s not what happened unfortunately. We didn’t have the Pope offering us a personal tour around his gaff. Instead we had to settle for our Guide – handily enough called Guido, as he led us through the ornate rooms of the Vatican museum, past so many frescos I thought I would choke. Too much beauty in the one place makes it harder to appreciate, it’s like not being able to see the wood for the trees. We had decided to go on a Monday, which we learned afterwards was a fiercely thick idea, since everyone who went on a Sunday and saw that The Vatican was closed then came back the following day.
We were throng-herded through a tiny crevice that lead to the Sistine Chapel where our absorption of Michaelangelo’s five year effort was punctuated by the Vatican security giving people a bollocking for using their cameras. The ceiling itself is a neck-creakingly exciting viewing, seeing Adam and God in their original glory, not being replaced by Bart Simpson or the Flying Spagetti Monster. No photoshopped nonsense here, every lick of paint in its original untampered, uninternet-memed beauty. Good old Michaelangelo, how he found time to battle Shredder I’ll never know.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
QUEER VADIS
Sightseeing is a bit difficult when you've last night blind-drunkeness to limit your vision. On our second day of Rome the wall-to-wall landmarking was overwhelming, and it hurt my head even more. We walked down past The San Carlo Quttro Fontine, the small Carloni Basilica beside it, and then past the president's gaff - at the Quirinale - which looked like it was being guarded by the village people. Two pink-lipped cartoonish sailors flanked either side of the buildings colossal doors and had some prancing traffic-cop types giving me the eye in a highly violating manner. It was enough to wake you up, and I could feel my buttocks clenching guardedly when one shiny guard came close. Italian men, I pointed out to Kim, are better looking than the women and that's just wrong. Well-preened smooth-skinned adonises with crotch-hugging designer clobber, affectionately touching people of both sexes, is enough to make you nervous or else go on the turn. Not me though, I likes me Italian women soft-jawed and me Italian men all looking like Super Mario.
A coffee by the Trevi fountain was all the perk I needed. We sat there recharging our batteries, and the cowherd of tourists filed past us, flowing down the cobbled streetlet like water. Some of this Trevi-fountain run-off would flow into the plethora of souvenir-shops, collecting all sorts of made-in-china debree along the way. We watched as the shopkeeper of one of these across the way broke out into song, her voice lifting over the hissy mono of her stereo, oblivious to our bemusement. We owed her a little rummage around her shop at least, if only to catch her rendition of the next track. We didn't buy anything though. We're cheap like that.
With the Pantheon and the Chiesa di sant Maria Sopra Minerva under our belts Something caught my eye then, as we passed the Templo Adriano. A calendar of pin-up priests sat at one of the souvenir stands, each month of the year looking more ruggedly divine than the last. Maybe I was dizzy with the gayness of the place, but I had to buy it. If you had been there, you would've too. When Kim and I got back to Cork, we'd give it to Jacqui, who we're pretty sure has a secret penchant for men who look like gay priests. The best present ever.
Monday, October 02, 2006
ROMAN CHARGES
The weather had been clear over Europe: the captain had come over the intercom to tell us we were sweeping over Paris, saying the Eiffel Tower was visibible. You couldn't miss it, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. My first view of Rome was similar: the starry orange streetlamps criss-crossed the paralleled streets, punctuated by the Colosseum glowing like a giant novelty candle holder.
The Pressure was on: I was to meet Kim at Rome Campioni airport, my flight had been late exiting Shannon , and Kim had been waiting for me, half-starting dozens of word puzzles since she landed over two hours ago. Now though, we were waiting on board for the bus to carry us to the airport. Fair enough I thought to myself, it might have been a heck of a walk. Except when we piled ourselves into the shuttle bus we zipped around a corner and we were at the terminal before the rush-for-the-seats crowd had a chance mould their ass-groove into the seats. When we got to Rome central, directions for the hostel actually made us walk in a circle - I should have known when it listed three lefts in a row - and this directional maze meant that I was hardly able to find my way back to our hostel for the rest of the holiday without Kim's help. There's nothing like a bit of female visual sense to overcome the shortcomings of male directional logic - so much for "give me the map, I own a penis". The hostel was a stones throw from the Termini station and the Piazza del Republica, a semicircled set of ornate eigtheenth-century buildings with a fountain in the centre. The fountain was placed on one of the most impenetrable traffic islands I've ever seen. There were people over there though, sitting by the fountain, though how they made it there is anyone's guess. I imagined that they had in fact been there for months, and they all hade complicated back-stories like the characters on LOST. I'm sure at the finale of LOST it'll be revealed that the whole adventure took place on a traffic island – that's my theory anyway and you read it here first.
The Piazza de Republica. Many have crossed the road to visit the fountain. Few have returned
The following morning we walked down to the Colosseum, passing Trajan's Column and The Roman Forum on the way. Our tour guide for the colosseum was called Isabella, and Kim found it hilarious everytime she introduced herself to a new member of the group: "I'm Isa for your questions" she said. We felt it was a bit unclassy to introduce yourself as being "easa" people might get the wrong idea. Many Ooos and a plethora of Aaaahs later and we had finished our Colosseum tour, and then we began our Italian holiday tradition or taking pictures of Tiger and Evil-Donkey, the more famous the location the better. In the Colosseum, we realised we decided to take them when there was a large surge in the crowd, leaving people baffled and bemused.
After a Pizza and siesta, we headed out to test the nightlife in Rome. On the corner near our hostel there was a bar-fight in progress, possibly the most gentlemanly I've ever seen, this was good old fashioned fisticuffs, all upper body work, with punches you could hardly imagine impacting on the male-preened visages of the Italian fancy-men. We drank expensive pints in two Irish themed pubs, Marconi's and The Fiddler's Elbow, before meeting a bunch of Canadians with "Road pops", which is basically legalised knacker drinking, and so we spent the reminder of the night drinking Peroni in the Piazza, with only the odd conversation with a dodgy Italian drunk to punctuate our liquid Picnic. One hairy-palmed trog tried to convince us to get on a bus with him to God knows where, where we would have been castrated like a Nero concubine and forced to partake in some eunuch orgy. Fortunately, amid the Roman lust for violence and the ever-increasing threat of gentlemanly fisticuffs we survived our first night in Rome. The next morning however it felt that Trajan's Column was being erected in my head. All I wanted to do was escape to some Island somewhere - and I knew just the place.
The weather had been clear over Europe: the captain had come over the intercom to tell us we were sweeping over Paris, saying the Eiffel Tower was visibible. You couldn't miss it, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. My first view of Rome was similar: the starry orange streetlamps criss-crossed the paralleled streets, punctuated by the Colosseum glowing like a giant novelty candle holder.
The Pressure was on: I was to meet Kim at Rome Campioni airport, my flight had been late exiting Shannon , and Kim had been waiting for me, half-starting dozens of word puzzles since she landed over two hours ago. Now though, we were waiting on board for the bus to carry us to the airport. Fair enough I thought to myself, it might have been a heck of a walk. Except when we piled ourselves into the shuttle bus we zipped around a corner and we were at the terminal before the rush-for-the-seats crowd had a chance mould their ass-groove into the seats. When we got to Rome central, directions for the hostel actually made us walk in a circle - I should have known when it listed three lefts in a row - and this directional maze meant that I was hardly able to find my way back to our hostel for the rest of the holiday without Kim's help. There's nothing like a bit of female visual sense to overcome the shortcomings of male directional logic - so much for "give me the map, I own a penis". The hostel was a stones throw from the Termini station and the Piazza del Republica, a semicircled set of ornate eigtheenth-century buildings with a fountain in the centre. The fountain was placed on one of the most impenetrable traffic islands I've ever seen. There were people over there though, sitting by the fountain, though how they made it there is anyone's guess. I imagined that they had in fact been there for months, and they all hade complicated back-stories like the characters on LOST. I'm sure at the finale of LOST it'll be revealed that the whole adventure took place on a traffic island – that's my theory anyway and you read it here first.
The Piazza de Republica. Many have crossed the road to visit the fountain. Few have returned
The following morning we walked down to the Colosseum, passing Trajan's Column and The Roman Forum on the way. Our tour guide for the colosseum was called Isabella, and Kim found it hilarious everytime she introduced herself to a new member of the group: "I'm Isa for your questions" she said. We felt it was a bit unclassy to introduce yourself as being "easa" people might get the wrong idea. Many Ooos and a plethora of Aaaahs later and we had finished our Colosseum tour, and then we began our Italian holiday tradition or taking pictures of Tiger and Evil-Donkey, the more famous the location the better. In the Colosseum, we realised we decided to take them when there was a large surge in the crowd, leaving people baffled and bemused.
After a Pizza and siesta, we headed out to test the nightlife in Rome. On the corner near our hostel there was a bar-fight in progress, possibly the most gentlemanly I've ever seen, this was good old fashioned fisticuffs, all upper body work, with punches you could hardly imagine impacting on the male-preened visages of the Italian fancy-men. We drank expensive pints in two Irish themed pubs, Marconi's and The Fiddler's Elbow, before meeting a bunch of Canadians with "Road pops", which is basically legalised knacker drinking, and so we spent the reminder of the night drinking Peroni in the Piazza, with only the odd conversation with a dodgy Italian drunk to punctuate our liquid Picnic. One hairy-palmed trog tried to convince us to get on a bus with him to God knows where, where we would have been castrated like a Nero concubine and forced to partake in some eunuch orgy. Fortunately, amid the Roman lust for violence and the ever-increasing threat of gentlemanly fisticuffs we survived our first night in Rome. The next morning however it felt that Trajan's Column was being erected in my head. All I wanted to do was escape to some Island somewhere - and I knew just the place.
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