Copyright © 2002 LeeAnn Heringer
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Copyright © 2002 LeeAnn Heringer
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escape from the Vatican museumthe entrance goes up a double helix staircase and doggedly pursues a spiral path through this warehouse, throbbing with tourists always moving outward and up. two of us in a crowd thick as a cattle drive weaving through a series of loud lectures in every human language, until even our own English sounds strange. hallways of the marble remains of the Greeks, Etruscans, and Romans. of their gods and countrymen. their 20 foot holy pinecones, their polished bronze castings of papal deathstars. their limestone low reliefs of naked dancing gladiators. 10 hours without water or pasta, coffee or gelato. stepping back into alcoves of less admired ancient art ignored by the tours to share hits of cold medicine for the sniffles we'd caught in the Roman rain. the black uniformed guards yelling, no flash, no flash. and in the Sistine Chapel where the cardinals elect each new pope, no pictures at all. all rights have been sold to a Japanese company. at the final turnstyle, where the pre-paid tour groups wait for the express elevators, one on each side of the lobby, we attempt a crossing to the outer doors just as a Japanese tour group links arms in flying wedge and rushes across to catch an open elevator. Dean and I caught in a rugby scum half our height, pushed and bounced, trying to hold on to each in a rough current. woozy and partially stunned, we paused to straighten our jackets and catch our breath. a mistake. the tour had missed their elevator, linked arms, and came back at us for another go. 2 thousand years of art at our backs, we ran into the gray wet streets of rome. |
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