I get it, it’s holy land. But if it really was such a sacred place, then why let tourists in?
The Catholic Church is already loaded as it is. They have like thousands of paintings that all cost millions, and here I am paying twenty euros just to go through the museum.Make it make sense.While my family is Catholic, I happen to be the odd person out, as is my brother. I prefer to believe in a higher power, whether that is God or karma. My brother has said that he still believes in Aztec mythology. Sometimes I question if he really does believe. I mean, they’re known for giving sacrifices to their Gods, so each God is at peace with their people. My brother does make sacrifices,that I am certain of.That’s his job anyway. Whatever keeps him going I’m fine with, but it is mythology for a reason.
Making our way through the Basilica, Mr. Donatello is at my side. The whole ambiance is mesmerizing. One thing I’ll say about the Vatican is that it’s breathtakingly creepy. I don’t know what it is, but there’s an ominous feeling in the building. The architecture for its period is impressive, and the vast art collection gives it an appealing gleam, but I don’t vibe with the aura.
We keep walking through the huge space, finally meeting the altar. I admire the work. It’s truly beautiful here. Chilling in a way, but that is the essence of its beauty. Sometimes, the ugliest things are the most appealing.
“It’s stunning. That I won’t argue with.” He’s standing right next to me, our shoulders almost touching. I can feel his hand brushing against mine. I breathe in and out as our knuckles brush each other’s.
Alejandra breathe, it’s not like he’s going to hold your hand.
“It is,” he agrees.
We stand there in comfortable silence, our hands barely touching. I reach my fingers out slightly as I turn my hand around, so my palm is facing the top of his. He reaches out slowly, the pads of our fingers colliding.
Breathe.
He lingers there for a second, both of us still facing the altar. Then grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers. I can hear his breathing falter as our hands stay molded together.
Looking up, I admire the sun beam that shines on the wood engravings. I turn my head to the right of the altar, readingNC VNA FIDESengraved in the marble.
“It meansto be rather than to seem in faith.” I nod and hum, he goes on, “living in faithfulness is stronger than to pretend to do so.”
He unlatches his hand slowly from mine. That alone snaps me out of my haze, and my brain recovers from that experience. Don’t tell me he speaks Latin. That’s so not safe for anyone.
Personal Reminder: never call him a grosseria in Spanish.
“Ready for your next exceptional Italian experience?”
It’s not an exceptional Italian experience. Dying of heat stroke is a more apt description. I can still hear Luca’s voice in the back of my head saying, “here’s something that you must know a lot about.” As he gestured to the Spanish steps.
Este cabrón.
Who knew that walking up a few steps would become a marathon? I swear I have been pooped on by a pigeon, shoved like the world was ending, and have been in the background of every tourist’s photo. I’m almost at the top and I let him know that I’ll strangle him when I get to the last step.
He’s skipping steps like he’s climbing Mount Everest at this point, while I trail behind him, dying of heat and dehydration.
Two more steps. One more step.
I swear, there better be an utterly breath-taking view at the top of this death trap or else. We finally reach the top, and I turn around.
Nope.
I face him with a deadly look, radiating my urge to murder.
“What,ragazza? You don’t like it?”
“Are you fucking serious? You just made me climb stairs designed for big-footed people, just for this to be the result?!” I wave at the view manically.
“It’s a staple here.” I snort at that.
“Well, it shouldn’t be.”
“It represents the close relationship between the eternal city and the sacred part of Rome. It’s the widest staircase in Europe. Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Nope.”
“I quite like them.” He smirks at me like he’s planning my demise in the process.