Roma is achingly beautiful with her seven rolling hills, her ornate architecture and her sweet Mediterranean air. She tugs at the heartstrings of those who visit, inspiring instant love and loyalty, and many who romantically observe her have imagined that her allure is flawless. Oh yes, she is stunning, but occasionally, our bella Roma restlessly shifts her skirts. If we happen to be looking, we catch a glimpse of a vulgar weariness that quickly disappears back under her immaculate hem… provided of course, we graciously look the other way.
Roma exists inside the circular embrace of the Grande Raccordo Anulare, known to Romans as the "Gra" or as the soul sucking infinite highway of clogged dreams. In order to leave the city in any direction, one must first drive a lethargic stretch of this highway while plotting varying means of escape with escalating levels of desperation. As the "Gra" is a large endless circle, one is never truly lost and given enough time (say, 16 days...) one is sure to reach the planned destination.
Within the circle of the "Gra" exist other progressively smaller circles of car stalling highways, causing one to imagine that Roma's city planners were actually enthusiastic students of Dante, students who euphorically modeled Roma's highway system after Dante's Inferno. Jutting out from the city center, like spokes on a bicycle wheel, are a series of smaller highways which connect the inner and outer circles in ways that seem to defy logic.
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| Out of the way in Genoa |
One such highway, starts charmingly a couple blocks north of the graceful loveliness of Villa Borghese. However, Via Salaria, named for it’s history as an ancient road transporting salt from the mouth of the Tiber, has retained it’s salty reputation. Heading north from city center on Via Salaria, one eventually leaves behind well tended, prettily painted buildings, replacing them with countless car dealerships, shady motels and ironically, Italian headquarters for multiple media outlets. Nearly on the doorsteps of these businesses, exists a perpetual number of varying types of women, engaging in the worlds oldest profession. There are statuesque blondes and delicate brunettes, there are ones who are constantly tugging down their obscenely short skirts and there are those who stand tall though nearly naked, pride holding their spines straight. They are standing along the Via Salaria in the dark hours of the night, in the bright sun of the day and in every hour in between. Some have eyes full of the knowledge of Eve and some have eyes that are far too young to have seen a loss of innocence. Some are of Romani decent, some have survived harrowing boat trips from Africa, and some have been trafficked from Eastern Europe. Many do not have papers and so, in the eyes of the world, they simply do not exist. Their pain cannot be real if they are not real.
The revered late Italian priest, Don Oreste Benzi, who in 2003 brought a Nigerian former prostitute with aids to a meeting with the then Pope, once stated, “It’s the fault of the police, it’s the fault of the caribinierri, it’s the fault of those Catholics who sleep rather than wake up as one and put a stop to the whole thing.” But it is not just the Catholics, it is all of us, we are asleep, we drive quickly past, we look the other way and the world continues as it is.
Italy is overflowing with non practicing Catholics. Perhaps they are disillusioned, resentful of the control that the Catholic church exerts over daily life and policy in Italy, or maybe they are tired of the hypocrisy. But things are shifting and with the election of a new, more humble and compassionate pope, many lost Catholics, Italian and otherwise, are having a second look towards the Vatican...even if just out of curiosity.
Towards the end of July, we packed our overheated bodies together under a brutal high noon sun in Saint Peter’s Square. As Pope Francis stepped forward with his signature sheepish smile, a roar rose up from the crowd at his feet. He began his Sunday homily, quietly, soothingly, and as his gentle Italian words rolled past my understanding, sweat rolled down the back of my legs. I lifted my camera to my face, adjusted the zoom and held my breath to steady myself.
“Man, I can’t see shit!” a loud male voice stated. As shadow engulfed my lens, I lowered my camera and stared into the back of a large man taking lip smacking swigs from a bottle of Heineken. “Brutto!” I thought... and I fumed. And in doing so, I forgot that I was standing in front of the Pope, I forgot that his words were washing over me. I had stupidly allowed myself to lose the moment.
Later, I looked up a translation of Pope Francis‘ words.
“Let’s remember that all is lost with war, and nothing is lost with peace. Brothers and sisters, no more war! No more war! Above all, I think of the children, those who have been denied hope of a decent life, of a future: dead children, wounded children, maimed children, orphaned children, children who have remnants of war as toys, children who don’t know how to smile. Please stop! I ask you with all my heart, it’s time to stop! Stop, please!”
*****
Saint Peter chuckles “Jen, how is your Italian coming along?”
“Pah! I could speak every language and still miss the point!”
“Jen, I know that you are starting to see, but when will you start to Do?”
“Gee, I don’t know.. maybe when Pope Francis tells me where to dive in, what I can do to magically help change the world...”
Peter lifts one brow skeptically, “Well in that case, Ms. Sarcasm, perhaps you should get back to your Italian. You’ll want to be able to answer when the Pope gets chatty..”
