The Vatican Museum; Ceilings

“Oh this is a French style, from the time of George the… something,” I say, taking an interest to the ceiling in the tapestry room at the Vatican Museum. It looks just like a particular French style of interior design I like (enough to recognize it when I see it, but not enough to be able to classify it) which usually has walls that are pastel shades of light blue or light pink (sometimes light yellow, but rarely so) with white borders and outlines on top. I think it’s simple and clean, but my architect-friends and design-friends usually find it disgustingly posh.

“George the something,” Ben repeats, mockingly.

“I don’t know what specific style, but the relief-sculpture-thing they do is really pretty,” I elaborate, only managing to make myself sound that much less like I knew what I was talking about.

“They’re all paintings,” Cherylene says, reading out of Rick Steves’ pocket Guide to Rome.

“Wait, what?” I take a closer look at the ceiling. “What?! WHAT?!”

People begin staring, so I turn off my vocal cords.

“WHAT?! WHAAAAT?!”  I continue to whisper-shout, walking down the hallway, ignoring the tapestries and keeping my eye on the ceiling that is so precise, so immaculately painted that it appears 3-dimenstional.

“WHAAAAAAAAAAT?! This is amazing! Why do our ceilings suck?!”

I’ve seen intricately planned ceilings, like at the Pantheon. I’ve seen ornate ceilings, like the ones in various churches and basilicas scattered throughout Rome. I’ve seen gilded ceilings and shiny ceilings and ceilings that would make the sky envious. But I have never seen a ceiling like the one I am looking at now.

Ever.

Then, when I thought I had seen the ultimate ceiling, I saw the ultimate of ultimate ceilings. The optimus maximus ceiling. The end all, be all of ceilings.

“Oh my god I can’t believe we’re looking at the Sistine Chapel!” Cherylene says, “My neck hurts, I wish we could just lay down…”

“Why don’t we?”

“Grishma, we can’t lay down here…”

I’m unsatisfied by her response. “When else are you going to be here?”

“With my future husband, he’ll need to see this.”

“But… but now. Right now. This moment. Take it. Take it, Cherylene,” I say, already sitting down. I can be very persuasive when the mood strikes.

As we descend onto the floor, time and us untangle. Like fish deciding to leave the ocean-currents, we sink out of time as we know it. Feet, so many feet and legs are walking around our sprawled bodies at a thousand miles an hour. My eyes don’t leave the roof of the chapel, lingering on each panel and studying it's colors, it's style. Almost 7 years pass, and I have finally gotten my fill of the ceiling above me. As we shuffle together and rise, melting back into time as we knew it 7 years ago, we were happy to find that only 19 minutes had passed.

My future house will have intricately-planned ceilings.