Cheryl Masse

Italy Reflections by Cheryl Masse

In all honesty, my first vision of Rome shocked me. When the bus pulled into the city after our ride from the airport, I was appalled by the graffiti that covered the buildings, every surface a grotty collage of posters and paint. Even our tour guide tried to divert us from the blight in the most defaced areas we passed through, directing our attention instead to scenes on the other side of the bus. I turned toward what I was told to view, but covertly looked back again, to the windows on the other side of the bus. I was distressed, wondering what the rest of Rome held.

We arrived at our hotel, exhausted, and went to our room, where I experienced two bathroom blackouts before Karen, (my roommate for the trip), and I figured out that the hotel key card had to remain in the slot on the wall in order to keep power flowing into the room. Where were we when this had been explained? Once we had it straightened out, Karen fell asleep on her narrow bed, and I threw open the window, eager to familiarize myself with our immediate surroundings. After peering out the window onto Via Cavour for a bit, I tried to rest, gave up, unpacked and wrote for a while.

Karen snored viciously; I could tell that for me, sleep would not come easily. When she awoke we decided to go out, to procure food, a long hike ending in the den of an unctuous Italian, the proprietor of a storefront restaurant located next door to the hotel. We left the place feeling thoroughly scammed; it cost me 15^€ for a meal I could have gotten at home, at Jake’s, for $4.25. I’d have to watch it if I wanted the money I’d budgeted for the trip to last.

We went upstairs, tried to sleep, and ended up awake at 3:00 a.m., both hungry again. “I have beef jerky and trail mix,” I volunteered. We ate our fill, tried to settle back to sleep, and gave up at around 5:00 a.m. Breakfast would be served in a couple of hours, and there was no point in lying there in the dark, giggling. We turned on the lights.

Karen showered first, needing more time to prepare for the day ahead; she had to apply her “face” before she showed it in public, a female ritual I’ve never understood. When she finished I showered, and was ready in time to head downstairs to breakfast where we enjoyed an impressive spread: proscuitto, eggs, juice, a variety of baked goods, cereal and milk, fruit, and fresh, hot coffee. We set out on this rainy morning well fortified for the day that lay ahead.

Huddled under umbrellas of many colors, we first toured the Roman Forum. I was enthralled, and soon forgot the dismal weather. I took hundreds of pictures, listened attentively as our guide described the various temples, tombs, meeting places and the cairn where Julius Caesar was cremated. He stood on the very spot where Mark Antony purportedly made (according to Shakespeare), his famous speech: “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears.” The guide was extraordinary, (perhaps a classical actor in another life?), as he reenacted the history of the homeland he so clearly loved. As he spoke, I became lost in the moment, my mind wandering back thousands of years. I felt a chill run up my spine as I photographed that cairn, decorated with fresh flowers daily, the people still honoring the fallen emperor.

We next toured the Colosseum, the site where 70,000 souls expired entertaining the citizens of Rome. As I stood looking downward into the currently visible hallways and rooms that were once concealed beneath its floor of sand-covered wood, I imagined within those walls the gladiators, often slaves, as they waited there, not knowing whether they’d live to see another sunrise. I heard lions and tigers, beasts trained to eat human flesh, roaring on a hot Italian morning, eager to feed. I touched walls built thousands of years ago by at least as many hands, and felt connected, somehow, to those people and this country in which I’d never set foot. We saw the Colosseum from many vantage points during our days in Rome; from which alcove, in what building, did Mrs. Ansley disclose her delicious secret to Mrs. Slade? Would it have been possible for Winterbourne to come across Daisy Miller and her paramour in the maze of tunnels, arches and tiny rooms that comprise the Colosseum? I forgive Henry James his tiny lie, suspend disbelief this one time in the name of Literature.

We also toured the catacombs that Sunday, ancient Christian burial grounds that once held the remains of everyone from the mightiest to the most humble soul, now equal in the dust. The moist walls and low ceilings seemed at first oppressive, until I became engrossed in the guide’s words. I viewed ancient paintings, likenesses of the men and women buried there, and thrilled at their antiquity; they’ve survived, somehow, and I was there to see the worn lines and the cracks, to marvel at the paintings’ patina, soft colors not easily reproduced. I looked into the eyes of a woman alive 2,000 years ago. Again, I shivered. This is real. I am really here.

We drove by the Appian Way, unable to actually travel the road because it is closed to traffic, the guide explained, on Sundays. I craned my neck as we drove by; not the first time, and certainly not the last time, I would do this in the next five days. We drove past the Circus Maximus, the largest athletic venue ever built, and again I strained to see. The worn, packed earth, forming an oval around a stone structure at its midpoint, brought to mind images of chariot races, dangerous trials during which men died or emerged victorious. The worn furrows astounded me; how could they still be there, after 2,000 years? Note to self: Find out why those lines still remain, and appear untouched by centuries of weather and erosion.

That evening we joined a jovial group of our classmates for dinner at a restaurant on the small street that ran behind the hotel; our meal was more reasonably priced, and I felt good as we filed out the door, up the stone steps, to Via Cavour.

On Monday morning we left early for the Vatican, hoping to beat the crowd. There had been a miscommunication between Dr. Joe Kunkle, the lead instructor on the trip, and our wonderful guide, Allessandro. We had to go to the end of a long line stretching down the street and halfway around the block on the street below. Once the line began to move, however, it moved quickly, and we were inside Vatican City within the hour. We entered the first of what seemed interminable hallways and chambers, decorated with exquisite sculpture, paintings, frescoes, tapestries and maps. I was so excited I almost failed to notice that most—if not all—of the sculptures of males are missing their penises. Some Pope on a tear, Karen and I assumed. We struggled to stay close to the guide; there were thousands of people there, it seemed, and all of them wanted to be in exactly the same spot, the spot where we stood, no matter where that spot was.

We finally reached the Sistine Chapel, a place I’d dreamt of seeing since I first heard of it as a child; I remember being shown pictures by my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Green, the same teacher who risked her job to show us the famous Life magazine photographs of an ethereal unborn fetus, floating like a feather in its amniotic fluid. Mrs. Green was pregnant that year, and as third graders, we had a lot of questions. She had the courage to answer them. Guess where I am, Mrs. Green.

At last, we reached the room leading to the Sistine Chapel. Our guide instructed us to be quiet, told us where to meet once we’d viewed it; we entered and immediately the murmur of voices reached such a pitch that a canned female voice came over a loudspeaker, chastising the chatterboxes inside into momentary silence. Within seconds, the din reached the same level. Too many people were jostling me; I looked for a place to get out of the way, finally finding a seat against a wall. From here, I could look above me, safely out of the constant stream of foot traffic.

The vivid colors delighted and surprised me; the intricacy of the work left me dumbfounded. I didn’t know where to begin, but I wanted to take in every inch, to allow my eyes to record it all. I began to mist up a little, but Suzanne Bunkers, second-in-command of our journey, sat to my left. Karen was on my right. Tears just wouldn’t do. I got up again, still overwhelmed; I stood on a spot that probably once held the scaffolding that hoisted Michelangelo to the sky, enabling him to create a work of art that continues to draw millions every year, a miracle. Oh, hell. I tucked head to chest, tried inconspicuously to wipe away an errant tear. I cleared my throat and headed toward the enormous double doors that marked our meeting place.

Though I didn’t think I could absorb any more, we moved on to St. Peter’s Cathedral, a breathtaking structure built first in 1546, modified in 1590. Huge sculptures greeted us as we entered the great hall; upon inspection, I realized that some of them were rather bizarre: A monk shrinks from a tiny child-angel, a skull resting next to his right hand. An enormous female angel dances, the cloth of her gown appearing to lilt on the breeze created by her movement. The crowning glory of St. Peter’s is of course, the dome. I took two good pictures of the light entering through its oculus. Both came out.

Day three: We had the entire day to ourselves, to do with as we pleased. Karen and I had joined up with Deb and Robin, a mother/daughter team from the Lit class back at MSU, now a million miles away in my mind. They had things they wanted to see, and Karen and I had a short itinerary, as well. We combined lists and headed out after breakfast to see all we could see in one short day.

We started with the Piazza Navona, where street vendors were just setting up their easels; they sold hand-colored prints of Italian landmarks at exorbitant prices. I was tempted, but still watching my funds. I had days to go, and I didn’t want to end up feeling pinched at the end of the trip.

In the center of the Piazza is a wonderful fountain, designed by Bernini: The Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi (Fountain of the Four Rivers), is one of thousands of fountains, I’d learned, in Italy; the fresh, clear water reflected the sunshine of a bright, clear morning.

Nearby, sidewalk cafes were being staffed, set up for the lunch crowd. White linen tablecloths were stretched over wrought iron tables; men in half aprons held in place at their waists with double-length ties swept the stone street, shooing away ubiquitous pigeons at the end of straw brooms. Deb, Robin and Karen shopped the vendors. I observed them. One woman fed her two small dogs; after the meal, they appeared to gaze at her work, wondering which piece to buy. I moved past them and over to a man alone, his easel set apart from the rest. His work was original; unfortunately, it was not very good. I moved away, tried to keep my face impassive.

Next stop: the Pantheon. Robin had been designated Official Navigator, and appeared to relish the role. Her map was in her hand and she stayed one step ahead of us all day, plotting the points on our next route. I was grateful for it; I was able to just relax, to go with the flow. I was delighted to hop this bus, to walk down that narrow street, to head underground to catch the subway. Robin pointed us in the right direction and we were off.

We arrived at the steps of the Pantheon, a massive structure, and entered. My first glimpse, before my eyes fully adjusted, was of the sun pouring through the its oculus, illuminating the square recesses that mark the inside of the dome, built this way, I understand, to decrease the weight of the structure, to keep it from collapsing on itself. It is breathtaking. I wonder how impractical it would be to have an oculus at home, maybe above the bed; the light is truly amazing. Imagine waking up to something like that every day.

Inside, art lines the walls, punctuated by more stunning sculpture. That day there were Swiss guards protecting ten-foot wreaths resting on enormous easels. We signed a book, honoring the dead leaders of Rome; presumably this includes Hadrian, builder of the Pantheon, who originally dedicated it to all the gods, a sort of one-stop temple. Could Hadrian have imagined that, 2,000 years later, his marvel would still bring to mind those same deities? And what about his time on earth: Did Prometheus smile upon Hadrian? Did Apollo quiver his arrows, lay down his bow? Did Aurora bless him with sensational sunrises? Did Hesperus dazzle him at dusk with an extraordinarily bright blanket of stars?

Earlier, we’d returned briefly to Trevi Fountain. Robin and Deb wanted to go back to throw a coin over their shoulder, and Karen and I happily agreed to revisit the area, this time in the bright morning sunlight. We’d run into another instructor, Joanna Mink, and she had told us we should visit the Basilica Santa Maria, Sopra Minerva. After our detour to Trevi Fountain, we made our way to the church. Deb and Robin entered first, while Karen and I photographed the obelisk outside, an elephant topped by a tall pyramid bearing Egyptian carvings. When we’d finished, we entered the basilica but found our entrance nearly blocked by an old woman sitting on the floor, a beggar. She cried, “Mange, mange.” I understood enough to know that she needed food; we dropped Euros into her shabby hat (Did Minerva herself spin its humble cloth?), and entered the dark building.

Inside, I was overtaken by the heavy smoke of huge banks of candles, lit by visitors in prayer. I dropped a Euro into one of the metal boxes welded below the stands, and lit a candle for my family, so far away. Though I was having a wonderful time, I missed them; lighting the candle made me feel closer. I’m thinking about you; can you feel it? I love you.

The basilica’s vaulted ceilings were painted in shades of vivid blue, the contrast more striking, here, because of the darkness below. I waited for ten minutes to photograph a niche, located along one of the walls, into which sunlight flooded. The arched roof of the nook protected sculptures, a small altar, and what looked like a crypt. It was the sunlight, though, that I wanted to catch, as it cast in relief the figures below and the carved ceiling above, the shadows dramatic against its white marble. The light in Rome was stunning, and reminded me of California. It wouldn’t be the first time Italy made me homesick for my home state; the climate is similar, the sunshine exhilarating. We’d left a serious snowstorm, back in Minneapolis, and I couldn’t have been happier.

By now it was lunchtime, and all of us had more than one destination in common on our “To See” list. One of those was the Hard Rock Café, Rome; I wanted to take Melissa a Hard Rock Roma T-shirt to add to her collection. When we arrived, we immediately felt comfortable. Yes, Hard Rock Cafés are predictable, and yes, they all look alike, the walls hung with Rock-and-Roll memorabilia, the rock music blaring almost too loud, masking conversation. But at least Rome has a sense of humor: The restaurant’s dome-shaped ceiling was painted with an angel rock band, cherubim strumming guitars and pounding drums. We all ordered cheeseburgers and soft drinks; the drinks arrived tall and cold, jammed with ice. Oh, it was glorious. When our food arrived we dug in with relish. I do believe it was the best burger I’ve ever had, and I’m a burger connoisseur. We got what we needed at the Hard Rock: a little taste of home, and we emerged, fortified and ready to conquer our next location: The Spanish Steps, or the Piazza di Spagna.

Robin had cleverly figured out that we wanted to get to the top of the Steps and work our way down, rather than the opposite. We took a bus to the crest of the hill, but were disappointed upon our arrival. The Viale della Trinità dei Monti, the French church at the top, and the Steps themselves, were rigged with scaffolding, blocked off in sections by garish orange plastic barriers. We looked around a bit at the top and headed down to the bottom, where the going got tough. Hundreds of youths lounged on the steps at the lowest level, making it almost impossible to pass through to the street below. We skipped between them, eventually meeting up at the bottom. And there we were: shopper’s mecca, where the fashionistas of Rome adorn themselves in the latest—and most expensive—styles. Deb wanted to go into at least one shop so that she could buy, perhaps, a lovely scarf; she dreamt of explaining to admiring friends back home, “Oh, yes. I bought it in Rome.” She was unable to find anything she really wanted enough to buy, so we moved along to our next destination: The Mouth of Truth, or the Piazza Della Boca de Verita.

Robin, once again, came through with flying colors. The bus she directed us to dropped us right at the entrance, where a long line of people waited impatiently for a turn: You put your hand in the mouth, clown around a little bit, pretend that your hand is missing á la Gregory Peck, in “Roman Holiday,” and get the hell out of the way or risk being trampled by the next group in line. It was an ugly crowd, and our small groups’ needs were a little complicated. We’d planned it all out, but it didn’t work out the way it was supposed to work: You take my picture and hand your camera to the next person, who will take your picture and hand her camera to the next in line, and so forth. We’d planned but without time for practice, we were almost physically pushed out of the way by the group behind us. I was glad when we finally quit the place, headed toward the bus stop and our hotel. But Robin had another idea: She wanted to get in just a little more shopping, and Karen and I decided to stick with her and Deb rather than head home on our own. Karen, by this point, was seriously dragging behind, her energy and patience all but gone. After a quick stop at the Disney Store we finally went home, barely able to walk. We covered miles on foot that day, and I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow that night.

We got up early the next morning, as we had to be on the bus on time to begin our journey to Naples and on to Sorrento. The bus pulled out promptly and took us the three blocks to Termini Station, where we waited on the platform for a train to Naples. I boarded the train first, reserving for our little tribe an empty car. As the others arrived, we helped one another hoist too-heavy suitcases into the overhead racks. Once settled, I sat back and looked around me. The train car looked like something out of an old movie, similar to the car in “Strangers on a Train,” an actual private compartment. I loved how the door slid open and closed, how the train rocked from side to side in a gentle motion as we made our way south. I would have been content to remain aboard, to see what I could see, but we disembarked in Naples where a bus again met us, taking us this time to the Archaeological Museum.

Once inside, I was immediately entranced: The mosaics of Pompeii, of which I’d heard and I’d read about, were amazing; I love mosaic, and these were unlike any I’d ever seen, up close. Tiny stones formed remarkably three-dimensional looking objects, the perspective and shading beyond anything I’d ever seen.

I fell in love with the sculpture of Il Fauno, the Italian Pan—more specifically, with his tail, arching mischievously over his buttocks in a playful arc. I was impressed with Pompeiian silverware, the spoons handcrafted, bowls attached to once-separate stems. I was moved by the intricate detail on a vessel that held the ashes of a beloved son, the elaborately carved urn the last gift of a grieving father. But it was when we walked into the room housing the Bronzes of Herculaneum that my heart leapt out of my chest. These sculptures were incredible, life-sized, perfectly preserved, beautifully crafted sculptures of dancers, athletes, graceful gazelles, and Achilles in repose. I was fascinated to learn how and why they’d survived the ages: Protected by a coating of Carnauba wax, the bronzes were impervious to water, minerals and time; they survived the hellfire of Vesuvius’ wrath, and stood before me, as close as I dared to get under the gaze of the Museum guards. I was amazed by their lifelike glass eyes, and admired the long, clean lines and anatomical detail of each piece. Who was the artist? How long did it take him/her to create these gorgeous works? Why had I never heard of them before? I had more questions when I left the museum than I had when I’d arrived; I suppose this is the point of educational travel—to stimulate the mind. My mind was so over-stimulated, by this point, that I fell asleep every night as it raced along, completely out of my conscious control. It’s a miracle I was able to sleep at all.

After breakfast the next day, we boarded the bus to Pompeii, another trip highlight. I’d always wanted to see the ancient, doomed city. I’d read about it, seen pictures, and it had always intrigued me: How could an entire city disappear, all of its inhabitants perish, in less than a day? What must it have been like to live there, to succumb to Vesuvius’ deadly gasses and fiery lava? And, finally, what was the city like? Who were its people? How did they live?

All of my questions were answered on this day, as our guide described both life and death in Pompeii. We walked in the howling wind, the freezing rain pouring hard against umbrellas and raincoats like so many tears, amid what must certainly be one of the largest burial sites in mankind’s history. I was astounded by how much of Pompeii is still there: The streets and alleyways are intact. Houses still hold their original form, minus the beams and boards that made up floors and ceilings. Individual shops retain the objects that define them: This was a bakery, its grain mills’ cracks patched with thick metal strips; this, the Pompeiian equivalent of a fast-food restaurant, the holes in the counter empty, now, where food was placed in vessels designed to fit them, heated from below. Here were the public baths, where neighbors met to socialize and acquaintances rendezvoused to do business; here, the public latrine, now grown over with fresh green grass, reclaimed by the earth. Again, I forgot the rain, taking in the sites—and the sights—before me, oblivious to almost anything else.

When we reached the area that housed the brothel, however, I was taken aback by the cavalier attitude of our guide. He found it amusing, this place where men came to buy sex, and I found it profoundly disturbing. I followed his words, listened to him describe how this place functioned, and silently tolerated his jokes. Then, I entered the hall from which tiny rooms holding only stone platforms were built, and I was suddenly overcome with anger. This is not a funny place. How many of the women exploited were here of their own volition? How many were slaves, forced to perform against their will? How many were slaves trying to buy back the freedom that should never have been taken from them in the first place? How many of them were gravely ill, infected by men who had traveled hundreds of miles away and brought back diseases for which, in 72 A.D., there was no cure? I could have lived without Giuseppe’s bawdy humor; it was inappropriate. Saddened almost to tears, I said a silent prayer as I rushed through the narrow hall, a wish for the damaged women who had once occupied these cramped, lonely spaces: God bless you. Rest, now, in peace.

That afternoon we took a terrifying ride up the side of Vesuvius, thrown first to one side of the bus, then the other, as the bus driver expertly navigated deadly hairpin turns, swung the ungainly behemoth wide to make alarming switchbacks. I closed my eyes more than once on the way to the top, and did the same on the trip back down. I was disappointed that we weren’t able to climb all the way to the top of Vesuvius, and view the crater, but I was given a consolation prize on the way down: The rich, volcanic soil hosted a small, ground cover plant that produced tiny yellow flowers, held aloft by long, smooth green stems. “Sours!” I yelled out loud. Karen, seated next to me, appeared momentarily stunned by my enthusiasm. “Those are sours!” When we were little, living in San Bernadino, California at the base of the impressive mountain range of the same name, my sisters and I passed many happy hours lying on our backs in the clover that grew luxuriantly at the side of our plain stucco house, lazily chewing on sours and talking as we watched marshmallow clouds float by, suspended in perfect blue. The harrowing trip up Vesuvius had paid off, after all.

On our last day, another free day, we awoke early, showered, breakfasted and met up again with Deb and Robin. The plan: Take Capri by storm. We’d inquired at the concierge desk the evening before, and learned that the ferries launched from a nearby wharf. I had directions, so off we went. After purchasing the only tickets available that day, for the hydrofoil, we joined Joe Davis and his group on the dock. I walked down to the end, looked out to sea, and realized that for the first time, Vesuvius was fully visible; the clouds that had cloaked it our first two days in Naples/Sorrento had dissipated, making it possible to view the entire volcano, including the crater at the top. I called to the group, told them that for anyone interested, the view of Vesuvius was stunning. Every single person made the 100-foot walk to the end of the pier, and lifted cameras, almost en masse, to take advantage of an astonishing photo-op. I was impressed, once again, by the kids in the group from Minnesota State University. Curious, attentive, well behaved, respectful and enthusiastic, they exceeded my expectations at every turn. What great kids!

We boarded the boat for Capri, lost one another in the shuffle, but gathered together again on the top deck, a happy accident. The sun shone, the sea sparkled and the waves broke gently on the sides of the vessel. The boat’s crew pulled up the gangways and we were off. The huge hydrofoil quickly closed the small space between Sorrento and the island, getting us there in under half an hour; I was glad we’d taken a hydrofoil, because the sea became choppy as it moved offshore. I took two short movies with my camera, the only movies I took the whole trip, unsure of how much disk space they required. My movies pan the sea, move the length of the ship from stem to stern, and catch Vesuvius, silent, breathtaking, and deadly. The light filled me with happiness as I rode the waves, the wind blowing my hair, small sprinkles of ocean spray reaching even the top deck. What a ride!

When we reached Capri, we were immediately approached by one of several taxi drivers waiting there in a group; they democratically take turns driving small groups of tourists to the islands’ hot spots: The Blue Grotto, Capri, Anacapri, The White Grotto, and more. We declined, at first, because we needed to discuss the fee and whether we were all in or not. We quickly agreed: The 75^€ he was asking seemed perfectly reasonable, split five ways (Sara had joined us at the dock); it also seemed to be the best way to get around the island. I approached the men and told them we wanted to engage a driver and car for the afternoon. Our driver stepped forward from the group, and showed us the way to his small van.

First, he drove us to the Blue Grotto, which we’d already learned was closed that day; the sea was too high to enter the narrow opening to the cave, and no, it wasn’t likely to open later. It was exciting, though, to walk down the stone staircase leading to the site, to see and photograph its entrance, the waves breaking dramatically against stone, passing through the narrow flume. I was exhilarated, felt a rush of energy just standing there. I miss the ocean, more than anything else, landlocked as I am in the Midwest. Before we left Capri that day, I was determined to put my hands in the sea and breathe in the briny freshness of the waves.

We were next driven to Anacapri, a small town on top of one of Capri’s rocky hills. Once there, the driver gave us an hour to look around and shop, suggesting we might want to lunch there, as well. We spent the hour wandering among the vendors, enjoying the sunshine and the bright color of flowers; what a thrill it was to see things growing, after what we’d left at home. When the hour was up we met our driver at the car, and he drove us next to the town of Capri itself.

After wandering down a number of narrow alleyways, we found an outside café with a good menu: bingo. We ordered, and when the food arrived I was thrilled. Fresh tomato slices topped even fresher mozzarella, drizzled with olive oil; the entire plate was generously sprinkled with fresh, fragrant basil. My senses were alive, my skin drenched in warm sunshine. After lunch, we did what we do best: We shopped.

We ended our day on the Isle of Capri on a small beach, where Karen and I collected sea glass as the others sat, looking out to sea, each savoring the day in her own way. When the next hydrofoil arrived, we boarded, making sure we were indeed headed back to Sorrento. This time we sat inside, the upper deck not configured to carry passengers. But I faced the window almost the entire trip, drinking in the sea, storing up sensations to carry back home with me. There is such a thing as a perfect day—I know, because I’ve just had one.

That last evening we had our group dinner. I sat across from Karen, teased her with one of my foreign shrimp (I still don’t believe they were shrimp), doing my best imitation of the French prawn in “Finding Nemo;” I got her laughing, along with nearly everyone at that end of our long table. As I looked around at the smiling, glowing faces of my travel companions, I was filled with gratitude, almost overcome with joy. What an experience I’ve had; how fortunate I am to have befriended such lovely people, people with whom I’ve shared such an amazing journey. I knew, in that instant, that life just doesn’t get much better.