A Summer In Europe (7 page)

The bustling street was much like the meal, a bit too rich for her tastes, but the activity below at least injected her with a much-needed bolt of energy. Although exhaustion had her eyelids drooping and the new sensation of jet lag made her stance feel slightly imbalanced, she appreciated the reviving effects of the charged atmosphere.

She gazed at the passersby, squinting slightly at the sinking summer sun and then back at the people. She caught sight of a young couple zipping by on a Vespa. They were laughing as the motor scooter zoomed down the street. Not wearing helmets, however, she noticed. And the contrast between the stride of a businessman in an expensive suit, leather briefcase in hand, and an old, old woman in a thin print dress, dragging a wheeled shopping cart behind her—the eggplant, zucchini and leeks bouncing inside the little metal cage—was profound. Both extremes existed in kinship on these Roman streets.

Gwen couldn’t help but twist the information she’d gleaned from textbooks, guidebooks and the Internet on the history of Europe and try to imagine the past in play here. Only, in her mind’s eye, the power of that mental image (gladiators roaming the street, men and women clad in togas and sandals) was heightened by her other senses: the sound of feet clicking briskly or clomping stodgily along the Via Veneto. The warmth of the summer evening air. The faint scent of pasta sauce wafting up from the hotel kitchen. The smooth feel of the black, wrought-iron railing, cool to the touch beneath her fingertips.

She felt a curious rush of exhilaration, but it was tempered with a tremor of her usual anxiety. History was about life that had come and gone. Any gladiator she might’ve enjoyed imagining was, of course, dead. And Rome had so much history. All of Europe did. It was, in a way, like a parallel universe, where the thread of this history connected the past and present with stunning vividness. So many humans had once trodden this sun-kissed land, and even this balcony where she was standing. Most were long ago buried and, in many cases, forgotten. How many years would pass before she, too, would be a wispy, unremembered woman in the shifting winds of time?

She swiveled around, away from the balcony’s ledge, and almost plowed into her aunt.

“Gwennie, are you all right?”

She tried to nod but wasn’t able to manage it. “I—I’m not feeling well,” she blurted, not at all exaggerating.

“Do you need to lie down?” her aunt asked, worry etching lines of concern into her already creased forehead.

“Yes,” Gwen said without hesitation. “I want to go to bed.”

Aunt Bea’s eyebrows pulled even closer together. “I’ll walk you up to the room and stay with you.”

But as they took a few steps in the direction of the exit, Gwen remembered. “Isn’t everyone going into Rome now?”

“Yes, but I can visit the piazzas tomorrow, dear. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Gwen forced herself to stop hyperventilating.
I’m okay, I’m okay,
she repeated like a mantra until she almost believed it. When they reached their room, she splashed some cold water on her face and urged her aunt to go out. “Please, Aunt Bea,” she said. “It’s just the jet lag. I’ve never flown out of the country before, so I’m not used to it. You go have fun on the town with your friends.”

Her aunt gazed longingly at the window, but said, “I shouldn’t go anywhere if you’re—”

“I’m fine,” Gwen said.
I’m okay, I’m okay!
And, though it took a full ten minutes of insisting, she finally got Beatrice out the door. Then she collapsed into bed, too exhausted even for fear to trespass on her dreams.

The next morning, Gwen awoke with a resolute, refreshed air and a dogged determination to put yesterday’s lengthy travel day behind her. She fully intended to get up, get dressed and get a jump on the Friday sightseeing. Rome must be explored, and today was the day to do it.

She slipped out of bed and, being mindful of not wanting to wake Aunt Beatrice, she did her flexibility stretches in careful silence. She then tiptoed to the small desk in the corner and pulled out one of the stationery pages provided, running her fingertip across the lettering at the top that said Hotel Adriatica in flowing gold script. Uncapping a nearby pen, she studiously compared the names of the most famous places in the city with the planned sites on the tour for that day. Breakfast was scheduled to begin in an hour, but then Hans-Josef and Guido were going to drive them on an orientation bus tour to take snapshots of:

The Colosseum
Circus Maximus
Roman Forum
Pantheon
St. Peter’s Basilica

This would be followed by a guided expedition through the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel around noon.

Gwen wrote these down on the paper and further consulted the itinerary. There was a break at this point for a late lunch and, if desired, a return to the hotel. For those hardier souls, the bus would drop them off at Piazza Navona and they could wander around independently from there until dinnertime. Gwen referred to her
Viva, Roma!
guidebook and made note of any other classical Roman landmarks or well-known sites. She then added:

Trevi Fountain
Spanish Steps
Piazza Barberini
Tiber River
Borghese Gallery

There was more she could include, of course, but this looked fairly comprehensive. She studied the paper, regarding the places written on it much like she did the tasks on her classroom checklist at the start and end of every school year. These sites were objectives to attack and then cross off with a sense of satisfaction. She would see each one, get through it in a timely manner and then move on to the next. By the day’s end, she would have tackled Rome thoroughly and efficiently. She’d finally know something of Europe!

She was in the process of drawing empty boxes next to each site, so she’d have the perfect place to put her check marks, when she heard a rustling sound behind her. She turned and saw her aunt. “Good morning, Aunt B—”

“Oh, my dear. What in the name of the Holy Roman Empire are you doing?” Beatrice asked her, staring at Gwen’s sheet with an expression of astonishment.

Gwen smiled and held up her carefully printed list. “Just writing down the sites I know we’ll want to see.” She pointed to the tour itinerary. “Tomorrow there’s that big excursion to Pompeii and the optional trip to the isle of Capri. We need to get this Rome stuff taken care of
today
.”

Her aunt, still very much in sleep mode, rubbed her forehead and shot Gwen a perplexed look. “Taken care of, huh?” She sighed. “Today is just an introduction to Rome, so you’ll know a little of what the city holds in store. It’s just the beginning... .” Her eyes focused on Gwen’s sheet of paper again. “Reading your list has exhausted me, Gwennie. I may have to go back to bed.”

Gwen laughed, thinking this was a joke. Aunt Bea, however, wasn’t kidding. She shuffled to her bed, climbed in and promptly fell asleep for another forty minutes, making it to breakfast with only enough time to grab a Nutella-slathered bread roll and an espresso en route to the tour bus. Gwen didn’t consider this a particularly healthful morning meal (rather unlike her own muesli with milk) but, as her aunt sat beside her in the bus’s big cushy seat and sent her several concerned glances in between sips of strong coffee, Gwen had sense enough not to say so aloud.

With her list folded and tucked into her front pocket, Gwen faced off with Rome for the duration of the morning. She dutifully trailed after Hans-Josef as he pointed out the architectural highlights of the Colosseum, helped them to visualize the area that was once the Circus Maximus (it was pretty much just a lot of empty space now), talked them through the remains of the Forum and Pantheon as Guido slowed the bus so they could take pictures. Finally, they arrived at St. Peter’s and headed toward the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel, where they’d had a special group reservation, thank goodness, and were able to avoid the hideous tourist lines.

Much of the time, though, Gwen felt unequal to appreciating these sites. While she knew a fair number of academic facts about each and could recite a few more, if pressed, thanks to her guidebook (“Construction of the present St. Peter’s Basilica, over the site of the old Constantinian basilica, began on April 18, 1506 and was completed on November 18, 1626 ...”), and while she certainly had no trouble imagining the ancient Romans marching around in the crumbling ruins, she still found herself a bit disappointed in her own lack of connection with Rome. Blamed herself, of course—not the city—for not being more blown away by it.

She stood in the jet stream of tourists flowing through the Sistine Chapel, all of them
oohing
and
ahhing,
praising it in about fifty different languages. She stared up at the famous painted ceiling where Michelangelo’s Adam—who was noticeably naked—was touching index fingers with God and, apparently, being given “Life.” She exhaled, trying to hide her mystification. What on Earth were people
feeling
(that she was
missing
) when they saw this? She wanted to like it and, certainly, it was a highly decorated ceiling with many pretty and even evocative scenes, yet they didn’t strike her as any more inspiring than a well-painted mural by a group of art students. What was it about classical art that
spoke
to people?

As for the building itself, it was kind of dark, even a bit dank. Gwen swiveled around in disorientation when she heard some guy with a heavy Texan accent say, “Don’t’cha think his place coulda used some larger windows, Marge?” A few nearby tourists gasped but, though she never would’ve admitted a thought like that aloud for fear of sounding uncultured, she had to agree with the Texan.

She sighed. Well, anyway, now she’d seen it and, if ever Richard or one of her colleagues brought up the subject in conversation, she could speak somewhat knowledgeably about it. She pulled out her list and checked “Sistine Chapel” off of it just as soon as she got enough light to see the paper clearly.

Aunt Bea, who’d been one of the
oohers
and
ahhers,
caught her in the act. Her aunt crossed her arms and gave Gwen a displeased groan. “Put that silly thing away, Gwennie. You’re missing everything good.”

Gwen tried to disagree with her. She’d seen
every
site so far. She’d paid attention to every single stone arch or broken pillar their guide had pointed out to them, even when she didn’t understand his avid enthusiasm for it. Intellectually, she accepted the importance of these sites as being historical treasures. Emotionally, though, she felt a bit cool toward them still. They left her with a feeling similar to that of caressing cold marble. A beautiful statue—like the
Pietà
in St. Peter’s—was something one appreciated from a distance, but visitors didn’t touch it, and it would chill their hands if they did.

Guido dropped them off at the Piazza Navona, where Hans-Josef instructed those of them staying downtown on good luncheon spots. The rest of the people returned with Hans-Josef, via Guido-driven bus, to the hotel.

The honeymooners—Sally and Peter—who’d been trailing Gwen and Bea all morning, were, thankfully, tired and went back. So did Hester, Connie Sue and Alex. The Britsicles—Louisa and Cynthia—disappeared into a boutique. Dr. Louie and Davis went shopping as well. Zenia, Matilda and the British-Indian father-and-son team trooped off as a foursome to see an art gallery.

“The Borghese has the best collection of Bernini sculptures anywhere,” Zenia had insisted to Bea and Gwen when the group was about to disperse. “A few great paintings, too. They’ve got a Titian, a Raphael, a Rubens. Come with us, you two! You shouldn’t miss it.”

Gwen would’ve done it. She could’ve crossed the Borghese Gallery off her list right then and there. But her aunt said no. She said there was somewhere else she wanted to take Gwen next.

So, after a late and very quick pasta lunch at a little café, Aunt Bea hired a taxi to take them to a place that wasn’t a major site at all—at least not one Gwen had heard about—Santa Maria in Cosmedin.

“Uh, what’s the historical background of this ... church?” Gwen asked, stepping out of the taxi and feverishly flipping through her
Viva, Roma!
guidebook for more information. But her aunt didn’t need reference material to answer. Bea had this site committed to memory.

“
La Bocca della Verità
is here,” her aunt told her. “The Mouth of Truth. It’s well-known in certain circles. Some think of it as a marble representation of the god of the Tiber River. Others consider it more of a lie-detecting oracle. Your uncle and I came to Rome many years ago and visited it then.” She laughed as if recalling some inside joke. “There’s a famous scene in the film
Roman Holiday
where Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn stop here, too.”

Gwen followed her aunt into a very small enclosure and, to their left, was a large, round, facelike orb with a thick crack running from the upper-right side to the right eye and lots of lines around the facial features, giving off the impression that it was a very old man. The oraclelike thing was attached to the wall, and a handful of Asian tourists were taking pictures of it. A few of them posed by it, sticking their fingers into its open mouth and giggling.

Odd. Gwen turned to her aunt. “Why are they doing that?”

Aunt Bea whispered, “Legend has it that if you place your fingers into the Mouth of Truth but have been untruthful, it will bite off your hand.”

Gwen squinted at the marble orb. Bizarre belief. Then again, ancient people thought the world was flat and there were dragons lying in wait at the edges of the ocean, too. Aunt Bea would, of course, like some strange sculpture like this. Gwen shrugged and pulled out her camera. “Okay, Aunt Bea. I know you’re truthful. Why don’t I take your picture by the Mouth thingy?”

Her aunt shot her a wicked grin. “Of course, my dear. After you.”

Gwen swallowed and walked up to it, patting the face with the tips of her fingers. The marble was shaded and cool, and the whole piece was larger than she’d thought. She slipped about half of her hand into the mouth but, for some reason, didn’t want to put it in any farther. She knew her hesitation was completely irrational. There was no magic or anything here. She could
see
how solid the wall was behind the
Bocca.
Nothing was there to bite off her hand.