My favorite photo from my recent trip to Italy is the one in which a 14-year-old American boy is reading the new Harry Potter book sitting on a wall at the Sant’ Antonio Cloister in San Marcos, Florence. (see below)
I had spoken to him and he said he was within 30 pages of the end of the book only a few short days after its release. I smiled thinking of him there among all the glorious art and ruins reading away, night and day, while his family – nowhere in sight that day – did the regular tour. He reminded me that no matter how far to the ends of the earth one may travel, we take ourselves along – our quirks, our weaknesses and our loves.
On this first trip I felt obligated to see the Colesseum, the ruined Roman Forum and the Vatican in Rome, toss a coin in the Trevi Fountain to insure I would come back one day, and climb the 463 steps to the top of the “duomo” in Florence.
But I loved discovering, on my own, the church of San Clemente in Rome, described in the guide book as place where one can see the layers of Rome. There was a wedding in the Church (built around 1100) on that day, but one could still pay 3 Euros and gain access to a basilica beneath the church from the fourth century excavated in the 1800’s; then take steps down even further into dark and damp buildings of the late first century to a Mithraic temple.
It was a journey down into layers of the past – not just layers of the past there in Rome; but also layers of my human past to a place before Christianity, before anything recognizable, to a primal place of beginning. The book said Mithras was a god born of rock to be the bearer of salvation (life and fertility) to the world.
So this “holy” spot was built on over and over again, up to the present where, on the particular day I was there, a couple received a spiritual blessing of their union. Was that so far from the hope of fertility sought by the Mithraic worshipers? I love stuff like that. We take ourselves with us wherever we go. One thing that went with me, as completely as my body, was the ongoing process of grief over my Dad’s passing last winter.
As I walked along a street in Florence with cobblestones and little shops, I found myself behind an elderly Italian gentleman. From the back he looked just like Dad. Suddenly, tears sprang to my eyes and I had a few moments of deep grief once again. And perhaps, that is really the best lesson of travel. The wonders of the world do not compare to this love and kindness we find in each other. I was fortunate to be able to spend time with my oldest best friend, my buddy Michele from Minneapolis who joined me in Rome with her daughter.
I was also fortunate to meet again a new friend, Daniel and his wife Renae, who live in Rome and opened their home to us, acting as intepreters, guides and wonderful nurturers. It was Daniel who made sure I made it to the “best” gelati (Italian ice cream) place in Rome. When I told the owner that my friend said his was the best gelati, he replied, “The best in Rome or the best in Italy?”
When I told Daniel that he laughed and said, “That is such a typical Italian response.” I loved the Italian people, they are passionate, verbal, breathtakingly beautiful, and kind. They have cat sanctuaries in several places where cats are allowed to roam free, and are fed and cared for by dedicated animal lovers. They stop their crazy scooters and mini cars for pedestrians crossing. They make the most wonderful food – pastas and pizza like I have never had. And they put up with tons of tourists like me who haltingly try to speak and are frequently lost.
Yes, I had a good trip.
An American boy reads Harry Potter in Florence. Gibson sits down to an Italian dinner at Il Messere, a “trattoria” in Florence. (It was “aria condizionata,” translation: air conditioned). (sorry about the glitches on the photos -- don't know how that happened.)