On Monday, we mailed a package from the Vatican Post Office
in Rome. I got out of the car this time,
and was distressed to see the marvelous piazza of St Peters chock full of
chairs and barriers. It is one of those
incredible spaces that depends on its pavement to be open or peopled, not
looking like cattle pens. I have a book
with an etching by Piranesi (1700s) of this very site, and he has people scattered
throughout, and it is just right.
We went back on Saturday to have lunch with Artnotes friends
from Cleveland. We walked across the
plaza this time, and it bothered me less.
In fact, the avocado wood barriers didn’t bother me much at all, but
those black chairs (I would estimate 750 or so) were still a distraction. This time I could see other things. I could see the triple rows of columns, with
the light bouncing off, filtering through, casting shadows.
Three nuns in mouse grey and cream habits were perched on a
column base, eating a “to go” lunch.
One, maybe a little older than me (or was it just the wire-rimmed
glasses?), was hanging out over the sidewalk, try to avoid a drip on her
wimple. There was a certain charm to
it. This day, I saw many nuns and priests,
the latter wearing their “Roman” collars, many quite young with earnest
expressions.
We were early for meeting our friends, so we wandered around
the Vatican neighborhood. There is
almost a visible line where the souvenir shops end (12 rosaries for 10 euros),
and neighborhoods begin. We stopped at
an antique store at the very cusp and bought an item I’ve been seeking for some
time- it will be a Christmas present.
We found our restaurant, which was in the souvenir district,
and it was quite nice. It was small, the
owner was a young-ish woman. She
recommended I try the beef, which was prepared in a modern way. Everyone else had pasta, which they all
seemed happy with. The restaurant had a
back room, where people with children sat and ate while the kids tried to catch
their fingers in the sliding door. It
was marvelously normal, and we got to know and really like the friends who
treated us.
Our friends took pictures of the food, and of us
altogether. We hugged and hoped to meet again.
Walking away, Blair and I passed a bench with three refugees
sitting on it. One was sneezing madly,
to the point I finally exclaimed, “Salute!”
The three, formerly invisible, looked up and smiled wildly at the
acknowledgement.
Ps. painting side-by-side at Santa Severa
