Lost

Weaving through line, through the metal detectors, through a clothing check that made me feel as though I were back in middle school. Back when teachers would ask you to put your arms down to your sides and if your skirt was shorter than your fingertips you had to “borrow” a size extra large t-shirt. This time I don’t resent it, but am terrified by the tiny possibility that I will be the one pulled out of line. I enter to find myself in a slowly moving mass, a mass traveling through a space that I can’t adequately take in. Herded through the crowd, trying to spot Schuyler’s green shirt or Joel’s mop of hair ahead of me. Head swiveling left and right.

--

I started moving around the baldacchino, not sure how to go about seeing the rest of the church. Arms brush past me. Cameras click and flash everywhere. I say this about all the tourist sites, but somehow it seems more pronounced here.

I walk down a hall. I think it’s marked tesoro—treasury. People stop. They’re taking pictures of a list of all the popes. It’s long. Not sure if I’m surprised by that, or if I am, why I should be.

I station myself in a corner at the base of two columns, as I am wont to do. It feels like I’m hiding, but am peeking out onto the scene before me. I spot the Rafael that we saw last night. Christ Rising. Not sure if that is the right title or not, but that’s how I will remember it. I try to take a picture, but that’s the last one. I can’t take pictures in here.

My feet take me over to the other side of the nave. I’m in line to go into the chapel. “This is the room for prayer only.” I read the sign and am reminded again when I reach the door. It’s as if they’re trying to tell me something. I don’t pray. I am told No photo, however, and allowed to enter. I sit down at the back. The smell of incense is overpowering, and then there is a click. Someone has taken a photograph. I feel violated.

I look around. People sit, others kneel. I don’t recognize the painting above the altar. I see the Barberini coat of arms above the two doors. I’ve become strangely possessive over that. I close my eyes. I won’t fall asleep. I open them as a woman in a hat crosses in front of me to sit down. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I know it’s time for me to leave. I walk out, through the curtain that feels rich to my fingers.

I start walking upstream to the front of the church to see the Pieta. I know I’m walking the wrong way. A huge crowd of people in too many colors stands before it. It looks small behind the glass partition. I weave my way through two tour groups, the umbrella passes by on my left. People turn to let others in. I watch the screens on the digital cameras in front of me. I see the Pieta through others’ eyes. Some zoom, others do not. Vertical or horizontal?

The girl in front of me snaps and turns and there it is. I move forward and am standing front and center. Literally. Before the marble. I am immediately hemmed in by a Japanese couple. Irony of ironies. They discuss how little they see of Christ’s face. I wish I could touch the marble. It’s too far away.

I don’t take pictures here. I might be the only one. Did I really see the genius of Michelangelo?

I think about saying すみませんas I turn to leave but instead I am silent.

I keep moving back, fighting the wave of people in matching red t-shirts and see the lanyards of a different tour group. Too many flags to tell which is which. I can’t see anymore. My head tells me that I should go down to the crypt, or up to the dome. I can’t see anymore.

I am overwhelmed, and unsure of how much of this I’ll remember anyway. Of all the surreal visits to sights that I have heard so much about, this is the most so. I’m not actually walking through it. I float in and out of consciousness as my feet carry me through.

--

The sun is blinding, as I reach the doors. I slowly wake up to the sight of the piazza. I hear my name and see Michelle and Gabrielle coming up behind me. I’m no longer alone. I’m back to where I’m supposed to be.

I’m a little disappointed. That was the most lost and alone I had felt since coming to Rome. I liked it.