Preserving memories
June 14, 2009
Pope Benedict XVI seemed to enjoy his ride through the throngs gathered at the vatican last week. Photos by Mac McKerral
The "masters" worked tirelessly on dome and ceiling paintings, often using them to deliver personal messages through art.
Vatican creators left no stone unturned, literally.
Before anyone who stumbles on this blog gets their Rosary in a twist, I am a baptized Roman Catholic, attended Catholic schools for 12 years, did a brief stint at an Augustinian seminary and taught at two Catholic schools. I still practice my faith, with “practice” the operative word because it takes constant “practice,” and at times I do not do so well.
Going forward in this blog, I mean no disrespect.
After touring the Vatican and hearing some discussion about miracles, I came to the conclusion that it’s a miracle that any stone, marble, artwork or gold remains in the world.
Grasping the significance of the Vatican — beyond the enormous wealth and power the church amassed from it, arguably on the backs of the poor and less educated through a combination of force and fear — becomes difficult.
But I pushed “anti-religion” thoughts aside as I entered St. Peter’s and did what I knew how to do — practice my faith.
A lot of things deserve praying for these days, and so I did that as I wandered about the huge testament to the church’s first pope.
Eventually, I took a seat on a wooden bench and watched people pass by the body of Pope John XXXIII, preserved and in a glass, climate-controlled case.
Some popes get tabbed as possible saints. You might have read in June that the process for Pope John Paul hit a snag.
The arduous papal path to sainthood includes the pope’s body remaining perfectly preserved 25 years after death. Some popes got encased in bronze to make sure their bodies remained intact.
Pope John XXIII got a traditional burial but was exhumed after 37 years. The Vatican News Service reported at the time that the “Body of Blessed John XXIII is Remarkably Well Preserved.”
Upon exhumation, Pope John XXIII got dipped in wax.
The exhumation came for two reasons: His enormous popularity as the “People’s Pope” drove the Vatican to create a way for more people to see the body. And he was on the sainthood track.
Throughout my life, I recall my mother always having two pictures on her bedroom wall or dresser — President John F. Kennedy and Pope John XXIII.
“What about her husband of near 40 year?”
He didn’t make the cut.
As the viewing line for Pope John XXIII ebbed and flowed, my thoughts about growing up Catholic ebbed and flowed — but got stuck on a trip I made years ago to Niagara Falls, N.Y., to attend the funeral of my Uncle Bill, my mom’s brother. She could not attend because of health reasons and asked me to represent the family.
I flew to Buffalo, N.Y., where my Uncle Carl picked me up.
Uncle Carl spent more than 25 years as fire chief in Niagara Falls and everyone from “The Falls” to Buffalo knew him.
On the way from the airport to the wake for Uncle Bill, we stopped at a number of corner, neighborhood taverns where everyone, particularly the bartenders, knew Uncle Carl, offered condolences and bought us drinks.
By the time we reached the funeral home, we became suitably embalmed with shots and beers.
After an hour or so at the wake, Uncle Carl tugged on my jacket sleeve and asked if I would approach the coffin with him — his first time and to see his brother for the last time.
I took him by the arm, and we went forward and kneeled next to Uncle Bill.
After a minute or so, Uncle Carl leaned into me and whispered, “He looks awful.”
“He’s dead,” was the only response I could come up with, one that satisfied Uncle Carl, who nodded with a satisfied look on his face.
We said an “Our Father” and stepped away.
Uncle Bill looked fine, but perception is more important than reality, I have learned.
At St. Peter’s, I got in the queue to view Pope John XXIII and made a quick sign of the cross when I passed, while thinking about my mom, Uncle Carl and a host of others.
Pope John XXIII looked fine.
“Noi salutiamo il gladiatore, Terry!”
June 12, 2009
Terry and the crew at the SPJ Executive Committee led by Al Cross in Los Angeles.
Terry Harper would have dominated here.
“Pronto!” from Roma, my friends.I am 5,000 miles away but closer than you think. So, I hope in the days ahead you all can help me share in Terry Harpers’s celebration of life.
Rome offers a lot of connections to Terry, and during the past week, I have dwelled on many of them.
It’s a city of love, and Terry was a loving, caring person.
It’s a city steeped in history, and Terry was a student of history — from the ancient kind that moves in and out of the ruins here to modern pop culture, which nudges its way into life here in odd sorts of ways.
The Italians love having fun, and no one loved fun more than Terry.
Italy swims in spirituality. Terry’s spirituality, richly and broadly defined, could consume all the icons in Rome.
And in Italy, family means everything. Lee Ann and the boys, and Terry’s folks and friends know how much he loved his family and the importance it held for him.
But if forced to choose one place in Italy in which to cast forever my memory of Terry, I’d pick the Coliseum.
Terry fought the past several months like a gladiator.
From the start of his battle, he knew what faced him and never cowered.
He chose the most powerful weapons for the fight.
He chose to frame each day as one in which he would live not just survive.
He chose to never look back, always walking upright and relishing each moment he spent with family and friends — viewing the time he shared with them as a gift not a sentence.
And when his physical strength deserted him, he fought with humor, humility and grace.
We were lucky to know him, and we have a model from which we can mold our lives.
So, join me with glasses of Maker’s Mark raised and our fists clenched with thumbs tucked inside (the proper way to support a gladiator) in saying: “Noi salutiamo il gladiatore, Terry!”
‘Copping’ a plea
June 8, 2009
Disdain for the police in Italy transcends all age groups.
What makes it seem odd is that I do not see the police around much and when I do, they seem to do little.
Yet, when they do interact with the public, generally they get a cool reception.
I mentioned in an earlier post the inescapable and relentless “tagging” that goes on here and its connection to disrespecting police.
Another example occurred Saturday night near the Trastevere fountain, where a four-piece street band playing jazz (very well, too) drew a large crowd.
Street performers abound at night throughout Italy — jugglers, acrobats, magicians, singers and more. The police pay them no mind.
But a tavern owner told us that musicians, especially groups with electronics, get treated differently.
And so, as Funkallisto, the Rome-based sextet minus two this might, played some jazz-funk, two police officers approached.
The crowd groaned and a few folks booed. I moved closer to listen to a very animated discussion between the younger of the two officers and the band’s saxophone player, Danilo Desideri.
I got the feeling that Desideri bought the band some time, because the police moved off and the band played on.
But 30 minutes and a larger crowd later, the officers returned — and this time the crowd’s displeasure with the police grew louder.
I decided to split.
The band did, too.
The crowd dispersed on a sour note.
Watch and Wait
June 6, 2009
The Trastevere fountain draws a mix of regulars and passersby each day. Photo by Mac McKerral
Tourists take a break on the fountain steps to slather sun block on kids, slurp gelato and study maps in order to plan their next foray through this place that the tour books describe as a last vestige of old Rome — and one in danger of losing that moniker.
The creep of restaurants, tacky souvenir shops and too much traffic seem to envelop the place, urban kudzu ever creeping along.
Locals hang at the fountain, too, perhaps pondering the ongoing change in their neighborhood’s complexion. They drink single beers and engage in animated conversations that I wish I could translate.
Then again, maybe not.
Street performers arrive late afternoon and at night.
Two black-spandex clad men with a small sound system performed a dance/acrobatics routine two nights in a row. Their acrobatic skill levels lie somewhere way south of Chinese circus performers and just north of a high school cheerleading team.
As always, age proves the enemy. But the crowds love them, and the show goes on.
An Egyptian mummy turned up in front of the fountain Thursday.
The creation — someone wrapped in metallic gold Lycra-like fabric with a mask — stood stoically in front of a small box wrapped in gold foil — the donation container.
The only way to detect a human presence comes from a twitching of legs — only visible from the back. I saw a couple other mummies on Friday at other plazas in the city, so it seems someone operates a mummy franchise. They look identical.
I wondered how quickly the mummified enigmas could extricate themselves from the wrapping paper if someone snatched the collection box and headed into the labyrinth of twisting streets that make up Trastevere.
I suspect the mummies might remain in their glowing Saran Wrap, staying in character.
In my three-hour stint at the fountain Friday, no coins made it into the mummy’s gold box.
Playing Tag
June 5, 2009
The Italian government fights a losing battle against taggers. By Mac McKerral
But it seems from my first-visit vantage point, that the country now fights a losing battle to what I have started calling “CT ‘n T,” meaning cats, trash and tagging.
Litter appears everywhere, even in the heavily visited tourist areas. Even historical dig sites in progress come covered with an array of wrappers, bags and hundreds of bottles. People seem to ignore trash bins, but honestly, they appear infrequently.
Yesterday, I spent two hours at a fountain near the Hotel Cisterna in the Trastevere area where stay. Small, ornate trash containers circle the fountain. Hundreds of people visit the area to sit on the fountain steps to people-watch. Many leave behind, gelato-covered napkins, papers, bottles and wrappers when the containers sit a few feet away.
Meanwhile, the government seems to have flown the white flag in the battle against taggers.
So much of the street art — apparently the way youth here “dis” the police — that to an outsider it seems (wrong language, I know) passé.
No buildings, even churches, walls, doors or public areas get spared.
I know America comes with its fair share of visual eyesores, but with such a tourist driven economy, it would seem Italians would fight a more effective battle.
Finally, stray cats seem to jump up everywhere, most of them black.
At the ruins of the Curia of Pompeii, where Julius Caesar reportedly met his maker, I counted 24 strays — only four non-black — in a matter of minutes.
For me, looking up beats looking down in Rome.
Here to there
June 5, 2009
A Capri two-car garage. By Mac McKerral
Italians move in all directions, always slowly when you need to get past them and always quickly when they need to pass you. Order takes a backseat to random.
In stairwells leading from train platforms, people descending do not stay right or left. Instead, the come down stairs five abreast — like football linemen leading a sweep — and play “chicken” with those going up, who have to catch a train.
At the pier, huge ferries pour people out on the dock at the same time others try to bull their way through to cue for the boat they need to board.
No one says, “excuse me,” except us “rude” Americans. And the WKU Italy crew, lugging way too much luggage, only gets occasional offers for help hoisting a bag on a train or onto a boat.
I recall that shortly after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks, airports throughout the United States began dealing with huge crowds of people moving through very tight and very slow security lines.
At the time I lived in Tampa, I used its airport quite bit. Quickly after Sept. 11, the Tampa International Airport administration hired consultants from Disneyworld in Orlando to help them achieve the crowd-moving task more smoothly and more quickly. The plan consultants developed worked perfectly. And each year, TIA gets ranked as among the top 10 traveler-friendly airports.
National elections approach in Italy. If I decided to run, my campaign promises would involve turning Disneyworld consultants loose on Italy’s public transportation system.
Space savers
June 5, 2009
A shrine to Snow White and her crew on Capri. By Mac McKerral
But adaptability and imagination abound for Caprisians when it comes to dealing with the limited space.
High on a terrace overlooking Anacapri, a man huffed and puffed his way around a running path created on the perimeter of his garden, maybe 50 yards around.
Along a footpath on the terrace, another patch of land no more than 20 yards long and 8 yards wide features two official-size soccer nets and a raised fence strung with netting to keep stray shots from the kids from going who knows where.
Some use the space more “capriciously.” One tiny back-yard pitch served as a shrine to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Religious Icons accompany almost every “casa,” always the Blessed Virgin as a theme.
Townspeople walk and ride an array of two- to four-wheeled vehicles — all miniature versions of American mades — on Capri’s “two-way” streets that in width measure less than one lane on an American road. Whatever Caprisians choose to drive, they drive fast along the twisting matrix of streets from the base of the island to the upper terraces and back down, always honking, never worrying and with few if any accidents.
Imagine a life-size game of “Chutes and Ladders” and think of any five-ticket ride at a fair or carnival. That’s the equivalent of a cab or bus ride on Capri.
Practically every piece of ground grows something — vegetables, flowers, bamboo, fruit trees and plants, and of course, grapes. Wine flows freely and since Caprisians make much of it at home, for them it comes freely, too.
The smell of compost wafts through the air, and each morning barking dogs, crowing roosters and a bleating donkey start the day for me long before the alarm goes off.
This place of unlimited beauty and serene island culture would take some getting used to for me.
But I’d take a shot at it — if I hit the Powerball lottery.
The cost of living comes at a premium as well.
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May 11, 2009
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