Rome via Brooklyn

DOUBLE. 756 Words, 4 Minutes.

My first weekend in Italy was a whirlwind. On Saturday I visited the Vatican Necropolis, an activity I’d booked a few weeks in advance. It was interesting to see such well-preserved tombs and be able to observe up close the burial rituals and customs of ancient Romans. We saw multiple skeletons, an aspect which I have mixed feelings about. I was taking photos, and so were many members of the group, as we walked on the scaffolding above these remains. 

Was this disrespectful? It’s hard not to imagine something similar happening to your corpse, or the bones of your friends and family. Am I comfortable with that possibility? I’m not sure. It almost feels like the dead are in the room with you in places like this. My favorite part of the tour was seeing the tomb of Alcimus, one of Nero’s chief slaves, and his family.

After the tour I went home to pack for my train to Florence, which I caught a few hours later. When I arrived I walked around the city for a bit, calling my friend to catch up (she was also in Europe at the time, visiting her family in Tunisia). After a while, I made my way to the Airbnb that I was sharing with Moussa and Jibriel. It was a small room with three beds, but nice and cozy nonetheless. I spent about an hour or so figuring out my plans for the next day.

I woke up early and headed to the Uffizi gallery, which I got last-minute tickets to from a third-party website. Waiting outside at the assigned point I looked over the statues of important Italian figures, noting specifically Benvenuto Cellini. A few years ago I was perusing my parents’ bookshelf, looking for something to read. They have a collection of classics printed in the 60s or 70s, which were purchased by my grandmother. His autobiography was among the stack, and I read it over the summer. It was fascinating being able to explore the psyche of someone who lived 500 years ago, but it was also surprisingly funny. Seeing his statue was a nice surprise, like coming across an old friend. 

The gallery itself was stunning. The extensive collection of art ranging from the Medieval Period to the early 1900s was such a treat. I love religious art of any kind, and seeing the evolution of Christian art, the recurring and shifting motifs and styles, is something I always enjoy. As an artist, I love thinking about the passion and time that went into each of the pieces so long ago, only for the identity of the artist to often be sidelined, the focus lying on the power of their work and the honor they bring to the religious cause. Some may consider this a scary thought, but I actually find it quite beautiful. If anything I make manages to outlive my memory, I’ll be proud. Now obviously if my memory can survive that would be great, but it’s not a necessity. 

There were multiple paintings in the gallery I’ve been familiar with since childhood, some being buried in my memory and dug up here. It brought recollections of studying these works with my mother when I was homeschooled, and looking over photos with my father that he took on his trip to Italy in 2000. The two that most stood out, and that I had the most connection with, were The Birth of Venus by Botticelli (one of my dad’s favorites and one of his laptop wallpapers in the mid-00s), and Madonna and Child by Lippi. 

Venus was a painting I knew was in the gallery, and studying it up close was surreal. Madonna was a painting I hadn’t thought about in years. My sister, who also went to Italy in 2000, had a small replica of it hanging in her bedroom, which became the bedroom of me and my little brothers when she went to college. Seeing the actual painting filled me with a rush of nostalgia; I could almost smell my childhood bedroom. The piece is beautiful, and I’d never noticed the frame within the frame. 

There were many other striking works: Michelangelo, Raphael, Da Vinci, etc. Seeing Caravaggio’s paintings in person was as wonderful as I’d hoped. Medusa stands out, the blood gushing out of her neck and the horrified, twisted expression on her face. 

Afterward, I headed out to explore. Among other things, I visited the Duomo, which was perfect, and attended their afternoon Mass. Every sound echoed through the vast building, every word of the priest and every chord struck on the organ. I sat next to some fellow Americans, who shared their translated pamphlet with me. Once Mass ended, I walked around the church to take some photos. 

Around 8 I arrived at the station (after some gelato of course), and boarded my train to Rome. Once home, I almost immediately collapsed and fell asleep. A perfect finish to a perfect weekend!