My first Roman Catholic mass (San Giovanni's Cathedral)

4 drops of holy water are still clutching onto my forehead, slowly evaporating into the nave of San Giovanni’s Cathedral. I’ve been sitting here for about fifteen minutes, waiting for my turn to speak with the priest.

I’m not catholic. I’m not even Christian. Yet I’m sitting in the pope’s own church, waiting near a confession booth. I’m not here to confess (some things are best kept between me and God), but I do have a question I’d like to get his perspective on.

“How do you know if something is true?”

“As in… ree-sahrch? A thei-sis?” His Irish accent catches me off guard.

“No… how do you know if something is… true?” I emphasize words in an attempt to get past our semantic barrier. But I was having a lot of trouble putting it in words.

“The Bible is the truth,” he finally says.

“What about the things the Bible doesn’t cover?” I’m trying to be extremely careful in not offending him, I’m not here to pick a fight, just curious.

“We can interpret what we see and experience from the word of God…”

Interpret the text to cater to changing times… Scalia wouldn’t like him. Just when I begin to question whether I’m speaking to an automated machine, he surprises me.

“…but perspectives are important, is that why you’re here?”

“Yeah”

“You seem to be paving your own way to the lord, but if you want to see how the Roman Catholics see it, you could consider attending mass a few times.”

How do you know if something is true? I mull it over and let the thought go when I can’t figure it out. I wish I had more time to just talk to him, but the line behind me for confession was growing longer and longer, so I thought it’d be best to leave.

He blessed me, and I joined the others already sitting in the pews listening to the mass. I listened carefully to what the priest was saying and was having trouble being able to tell whether it was in Latin or Italian. This being my first experience at a Roman Catholic mass, I just followed what I saw others doing. Next thing I know, I’m in a line and approaching another priest.

“Il corpo Christi” the priest says, pushing a wafer into my mouth. il… so that makes this Italian? But Christi seems genitive… though I suppose Christus isn’t a word… But Italian doesn’t even decline their nouns, so this has to be Latin… but why would he use an article?

I mull it over and let the thought go when I can’t figure it out.

Just couldn’t figure anything out today…

The Last Night in Florence

Imagine the movie Quarantine (or Rec, if you’re a horror movie connoisseur, live in Spain, or a hipster). Imagine that apartment building, where crazy-zombie-virus was set loose and infected the residents of the upper floor.

Remember that little girl? The one who (extremely graphically) attacked her mother? Imagine her.

Now imagine sitting in near-pitch-blackness in the stairwell at the top floor of that apartment building. Yeah, the floor where the crazy guy did all his genetic experiments and where the most ferocious zombies were. The floor where the camera woman was dragged to a mysterious and presumably gruesome death.

That’s where I’ve spent the past 90 minutes. Well, there’s no zombies here (that I know of), but every noise is terrifying. Despite the darkness, I can make out the silhouette of a cat, which has been staring at me the entire time I’ve been here. Does it smell panic? Does it know how close I am to entering into a fear-induced coma? Can cats catch zombie-viruses? Are my wives here in spirit, the cat-lovers they are, and guarding me?

Ben finally comes back (to my absolute relief), and I leave to take a walk and shake off my tension. 

As I meander through the narrow roads, I find a side of Florence I didn’t know existed. Florence had its glory days as a major producer of art long ago, but tonight, I saw more than ever how art never left Florence.

In the piazza near the Uffizi Gallery, there are statues from the Renaissance scattered around shops and fountains. Tonight, there was a stage, loud music, and dancing like I’ve never seen. I caught the latter half of the performance, and couldn’t take my eyes off of the stage. It was dramatic, powerful, and thoroughly captivating.

Eventually, night melted into morning, and as I walked towards the train station at 4am, the wheels from my suitcase steadily clicking against the cobblestone streets, Florence gave me her goodbye present. She tucked in the herds of tourists, the traffic, everyone, and let me see the city as someone would see a museum or basilica if they were the only ones there. The initial awe soon wears off, as I realize that I’m looking at nothing more than a skeleton. What I see is a shell, there is no context to this place. Without people, the city looks like a movie set, or a peculiarly large section at Epcot. It was while walking through these streets for the last time, when I had spent the past week thinking about how much I wish it wasn’t “peak tourist season” (as if I’m not a tourist myself, right?) that I realized that the tourists were as much a part of this city as the locals.

If I lived here, perhaps I’d converse with my neighbors as such:

“Buongiorno, Francesco,” I’d say, grabbing my morning newspaper off the urine-streaked streets, “Ci sono molti turisti recentemente. che spettacolo...”

We’d laugh and discuss their funny accents; it would become a yearly tradition. June and July, I think, would belong to the tourists.

Italian Thunder

I already remarked about how intense Greek thunder is, and Italian thunder is no different. It's equally intense, but the biggest difference is in the size of raindrops. The raindrops in Arizona range from the size of reset buttons you find in toys and electronics (you know, the ones you need a pencil or pin to push) to the carbonation inside soda. Italian raindrops range from the size of skittles to marbles. We have no one living above us in our apartment, so the entire night felt like we were under attack. These weren’t the gentle sounds of rain you find in cheesy CDs at craft stores; this was an extended drum solo CD being played simultaneously in 300 stereos at 40% volume.

I have slept through television noises, barking puppies, people knocking at my door, et cetera. But this boisterous storm woke me up at least three times during the night. I was cranky because of my disturbed sleep, but I couldn’t even imagine how upset I’d be if my laundry was drying in the patio, like Emily’s was. She had been trying to dry her clothes all week, but the humidity of Rome was keeping dry clothes from her as long as it could. And now, it rained all over her entire wardrobe.

She was up before me, and before I could complain about my restless sleep or empathize about her re-wet laundry, she breaks me.

“Wasn’t that just the most beautiful rainstorm?” she says, smiling widely.

“I couldn’t really sleep… and your laundry, that sucks Emily…”

“Oh it’s no big deal, that rainstorm was just. So. Beautiful.”

My shining light of optimism, she falls back into bed, still smiling.

I guess it was a beautiful storm after all. When else will I feel like a World War is taking place around me? 

Conversazione in italiano a suo "meglio"

When you try to translate Latin, it’s like a wrestling match. You tackle it, you twist it around, and you conquer it if you have been doing it long enough. Trying to speak Italian, on the other hand, is usually pretty straightforward (hand gestures fill in the spaces for words I don’t know yet). But sometimes, like the server at McDonalds found out today, speaking to me in Italian is like trying to tango with a baby deer.

(Note: The McDonalds here have a promotion going on right now where they give away these really cool cups if you buy a meal. I barely even eat at McDonalds in America, but I really wanted this cup, which is why I was here)

 “Vorrei numero sei… ma insalata. No, no fries. E l’aqua,” I say, squinting at the menu. The server looks like he knows what I'm talking about, but ends up putting fries and a coke in my order.

“Uh… no, no coke. Aqua,” I say, refusing to take the bag when he held it out to me.

“No coke? Perche?” 

(No coke? Why?)

“Non mi piace coke, vorrei aqua…” 

(I don’t like coke, I’d like water…)

He looks at me like I’m crazy, and gets me water instead of my coke. I then notice that he’s given me the green cup, but there’s a black one nearby that looks better. I already knew this would be choppy…

“Posso ho nero cup?” 

(I can I have black “cup”?)

He takes out the green cup and gives me the black one.

“E insalata” (and salad)

“No fries?”

“No, no fries.”

“Sono deliziosi!” 

(They’re really good!)

“Ho mangiato fries, vorrei insalata.” 

(I have ate fries, I’d like salad)

Avete mangiato! That’s how you say it! Too bad I remember this when it's too late.

“Signorina, i fries sono buoni!” 

(Madam, the fries are really good!)

Apparently, no one gets a salad here. Figures though, who goes to McDonalds for a salad? The line behind me was getting really long, and I had the cup I wanted, so I just took the fries, thanked him, and headed home.

Practice is good for me though, right? Giusto?

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.

la nostra famiglia italiana

“Okay, who’s good at eyeing measurements?” Adam says, holding up a box of muffin mix.

“I’ll do it,” I spoke up, having baked a fair share of confectionaries over the years.

“We need 100 milligrams of water.”

“Milligrams? I can do pints… or cups, or—”

He had already moved on to assist some others with the bruschetta. I look around the kitchen for full bottles of liquids. After sifting through the shelves, I settle on a bottle containing 250 milliliters of olive oil. A few squints of the eye and sips of water later, I think I have the right amount.

“Here,” I say, watching as Adam was trying to eye 70 milligrams of butter from a stick containing 2 grams.

Visitors in London try to fit as many people into phone booths as they can. Visitors in Rome, it seems, try to fit as many people into a kitchen. There are 4 of us near the stove—two making pasta sauce, one heating butter, one boiling pasta—3 near a table assembling bruschetta and slipping pans into the oven, 2 cutting vegetables and making the salad, 2 drinking wine and offering to help when needed, and a few doing homework one room over.

“Hot butter, coming through!” Adam says, weaving around the stations of preparation through this 4 by 11 foot kitchen, and pours it into the pot I was sifting the mix into.

We bake the muffin in a giant cake pan while we eat, la nostra famiglia italiana, and 20 minutes later, it looks disgusting. It’s burnt around the edges, raw in the middle, and bubbling in places.

No matter.

We all grab spoons and devour the dough in the middle, the cakey ring once the dough runs out, then the burnt edges once there’s nothing else left.

La nostra famiglia italiana would, like the muffin-cake, appear to be a hot mess if someone was inspecting it from afar. But once you have a taste, you realize that you wouldn't want it any other way.