It’s raining. I decide it’s time I saw the Pantheon in the rain. I take a left out of the Campo and a right onto Vittorio Emanuele. I know this route well by now. A man under a massive umbrella comes toward me on the steps of Sant’Andrea della Valle. He has more umbrellas hanging by their handles off his left arm. He says Ciao or Good Morning. By now they have begun to sound the same. I walk past him without a word. I don’t feel guilt. I don’t want an umbrella so this is the way it must be.
It’s raining. Coming down a little harder now. Maybe this counts as a drizzle. Across the street I see a flock of brightly colored umbrellas. Reds and yellows and greens. Tourists. In my head I think, I don’t need an umbrella. I’m from Seattle. I’m made from tougher stuff than this.
It’s raining. I cross the street at Largo Argentina. I’m looking for the forno that I always pass on the way back from the Pantheon. The one I always pause at, and move on thinking, Another time. Now, in this last week, it is the time. I pass a bar and a panini place, and think I missed it. Impossible. Now I see it. There is an Italian woman in front of me, pointing to one of the flour, sugar, and magic creations in the window. I stare. Prego. It catches me off guard. Una questo. Questo? Si. I can order now. I watch as she struggles to pick it up in the tongs. I’m not quite sure what I pointed to. It is some sort of streusel-y pastry, with glaze and a dusting of sugar. I cringe as I realize this creation of magic will cost me 4 euro. Perhaps that is why, up until now, I have only looked.
It’s raining. Much harder now, as I peek outside the door of the warm, dry bakery. Two English women stop almost in front of me. It’s limoncello, yea? But you have to get the ones in the little shaped bottles, y’know. We’ll come back, right? They have umbrellas, and I am now beginning to regret not having mine. But I have come this far and I am not going back without seeing the Pantheon.
It’s raining. It is actually raining now. Rain that in Seattle would merit an umbrella without stares saying Outsider. My Birkenstocks are getting wet, which I know is against the rules. I can’t avoid the currents between the cobblestones; I just barely miss the polluted lake filled with cigarette butts and bottle caps.
It’s raining. It’s pouring now. My glasses are completely spattered and I can barely keep my eyes open, the drops are falling so fiercely. I hate wearing glasses in the rain. I can see the huge brown building looming before me. Almost there. It is treacherous coming down the slope. No tripping allowed here.
It’s raining. The spatter of the drops onto the marble is surprisingly loud. I come around the edge, near the columns, walking directly under one of the largest waterfalls cascading off the roof. My clothes are plastered to my skin, my hair dripping, and I have a terrifying thought. Is my skirt see-through? Can I walk into a church like this? I try to push the thought aside as the throngs camping out here to avoid the rain give me a collective looking up and down. Ignoring this, I weave around the squatters, and enter the building.
It’s raining. As I look up to the oculus, I see the drops falling through. From so high up, it looks like mist, but as it falls to the colored marble on the floor, it makes a soft tip-toeing sound. I install myself in a corner by a column, just in case my skirt is indeed see-through, and lean my head back. This is a position I have found myself in often, lately, staring up into ceilings. Most are frescoed. Now, however, my eyes are concentrating on a circle that seems to rise above the dome it is contained in.
It’s raining. Through the oculus, the drops seem smaller than those outside, but I think they are slowing as well. I hear the rumble of thunder, rather like the garbage trucks that barge through the Campo at prescribed hours each afternoon. I see flashes of light, for a moment thinking they are lightning, then realizing they are the flashes of cameras echoing off the walls.
It’s not raining. As I step outside, the storm has stopped. Rain in Rome is temperamental and short. The only indications that it did rain are the rivulets flowing through cobblestones and me, standing in front of the Pantheon, clothes hugging my body, and a ponytail ready to be rung out.
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