The Vatican was the main item on the day’s schedule, but that wasn’t until the afternoon, which left plenty of time to sleep late, meander back to the bakery, and enjoy a leisurely breakfast of pastries, tea for Rachel and cappuccino for me. Speaking of cappuccino, I’d like to tangentially discuss my experience with coffee in Rome.
I am not a huge fan of espresso. For me, a good cup of coffee is both functional (it delivers sufficient caffeine) and tasty. I definitely find some cups more tasty than others; for example, I find freshly ground, mild roasts extremely tasty, darker roasts less tasty, instant coffee even less tasty, and stale, old pre-ground coffee decidedly not tasty. Sadly, though, I am mildly addicted to the stuff, and I will happily drink a not tasty cup as long as it is still functional.
Before visiting Italy, nearly all my straight-up-espresso experience came from Israel, the land that is still largely unaware of real brewed coffee (another discussion). The worst Israeli espressos are very bitter and dirt-like, with no redeeming flavors, and the best are still pretty bitter at first, but sometimes develop more pleasant flavors. They are never as bad as a cup brewed from stale grounds, since they are almost always made from freshly ground beans. But they are still much more bitter than I’d like. As far as caffeine goes, a single shot has only a puny amount. A double is a little better, but I swear it’s still not nearly as strong as a good old cup of joe.
Still, I was excited to try espresso in Rome. Italians invented the espresso, and the art of pulling a good espresso is known to be cherished and perfected by Italian baristas (although you might find some of the world’s best baristas in Seattle). My thinking was: Israeli espressos are bad because Israeli baristas don’t put any thought into making them. Besides, almost no Israelis actually drink straight espressos, whereas many Italians do. Conclusion? I’d be sure to find great espressos in Rome.
Over the course of our trip, I drank about 6 to 8 espressos. They all tasted more or less the same. They were, admittedly, a little better than the average Israeli espresso. But I was expecting a drink that had a rich, complex flavor... and all I got was a drink that was still basically bitter and flat. Sitting on a cobbled Roman street enhanced the effect, but the flavor was unexceptional. More importantly, though, they were TINY, maybe an ounce of liquid. My cappuccino was slightly bigger, but still very small. These drinks were mere drops in my caffeine-collecting bucket. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I couldn’t wait to get back to Israel for a cup of my cheap Elite instant coffee.
Now for the disclaimers. First, I always ordered single, rather than double espressos, because I didn’t know how and forgot to look it up and was too embarrassed to order in English. This may or may not have solved the lack of caffeine issue. Second, I realize that drinking several espressos over the course of the day, as Italians do, may accomplish the same thing as a large up in the morning. Third, I didn’t do any research regarding where to get really good espressos (we planned our trip in two hurried days, and internet was inaccessible for the majority of the trip itself). It’s unrealistic to expect that every barista in Rome pulls amazing espressos merely because he is Italian. It’s like pizza in NY, felafel in Israel, or any other regional treat. On a whole, quality is good because the ingredients are high quality and good techniques are in general practice, but to really get something delicious, you have to go to someone who applies care and skill to make it delicious. Most of the baristas who made me espresso were doing their jobs. They were making coffee the way they knew how, but didn’t necessarily have the will or the skill to make coffee that impressed me. Next time Rachel and I go to Italy (yes, I think there will be such a time), I will do my homework, and find those baristas.
Anyway, back to the vacation.
After breakfast we hopped on the Metro and exited across the Tiber, near the Vatican. After passing by the Castel Sant’Angelo area, we made our way down the Via della Conciliazione, a large boulevard that leads directly to the Piazza San Pietro, the enormous round plaza in front of St. Peter’s Basilica.
It seems superfluous to say that we “felt” like we were entering the headquarters of worldwide Christianity, because we actually were. I say “felt”, however, because despite the constant visual reminders one encounters on the street in Rome - churches galore, clergy of all stripes, and numerous stores selling what I can only describe as “Christaica” (crosses, figurines, candles and the like) - they represent merely a quantitative, rather than qualitative, increase in the density of something already familiar to two American Jews.
Approaching and entering the Vatican, however, brought about a palpable change. It was as if we’d been walking past a neighbor’s house every day of our lives, but only now step foot inside. I can’t speak for Rachel, but for the first and only time on our trip, and in a way that I don’t remember happening anywhere else, I truly felt like an outsider, a visitor.
In the midst of these meditations on personal identity, it began to rain. We had reached the rendezvous point for our tour, where everyone was huddled against the side of a building under the only available protection - a thing overhang. Stupidly, I bought a flimsy pink umbrella for 5 euro from one of the opportunistic merchants who had sprung up after the first drop. A fellow tourist subsequently told me that I could have given him anything, even far lower than this asking price, and the umbrella would have been mine. But before we had much time to brood on this loss, the tour guide arrived and we hurried indoors.
The tour guide was fantastic. She spoke into a microphone and each of us received a headset; this way we could hear clearly her among the crowds in the Vatican museum. She was never boring, even though she fed us a constant stream of information. And she must have been really smart, because she had a British accent. Finally, she convinced the ticket agent to let me in at the student price, despite my having forgotten my student ID in our room.
I am writing this post nearly two months after our trip, so it is hard to remember all the details of what we saw in the museum. That’s ok, because no one wants to read all the details anyway; that is what the internet is for. Instead, here is a bulleted list of cool highlights:
The tour ended at St Peter’s Basilica. If it hasn’t been mentioned by this point, we didn’t have any compunctions about going into churches, so we poked our heads into St. Peter’s. I don’t have much to comment on, other than its enormous size. The place is like an airplane hanger, but with stained glass. Rachel went to look at Michelangelo’s Pieta, and then I started to get uncomfortable lingering inside a church that looked like it was built for giants. Plus my feet were hurting. On the way out, we took a gander at the ridiculously dressed Swiss Guards of the Vatican. Did you know that being good looking is part of their job description? I’m serious. Rachel thought they were so so.
By the end of the tour, it was early afternoon, and we decided to try out a kosher restaurant in the southern part of Trestevere, near a street called Viale Guglielmo Marconi. We rode a bus down along the river, and then started off on foot. We crossed the river, only to find ourselves walking along a very sketchy looking road. Lots of tires and stuff were for sale. We were following the map, but the neighborhoods remained rather sketchy, and when we reached our final destination, the restaurant was closed.
Fortunately, there was a tram nearby, which brought us back to the familiar Ghetto, and a late lunch/early dinner. The evening was lost, however, because as soon as we finished it started to pour. We scampered to a bus stop and by the time we got off at our bed and breakfast it was coming down in buckets. By 8:30 PM we were stuck in our room with a storm outside, and no functioning TV, computer, or even wireless internet for Rachel’s iPod. Fortunately, we were exhausted, and we got ourselves a good night’s sleep.
I am not a huge fan of espresso. For me, a good cup of coffee is both functional (it delivers sufficient caffeine) and tasty. I definitely find some cups more tasty than others; for example, I find freshly ground, mild roasts extremely tasty, darker roasts less tasty, instant coffee even less tasty, and stale, old pre-ground coffee decidedly not tasty. Sadly, though, I am mildly addicted to the stuff, and I will happily drink a not tasty cup as long as it is still functional.
Before visiting Italy, nearly all my straight-up-espresso experience came from Israel, the land that is still largely unaware of real brewed coffee (another discussion). The worst Israeli espressos are very bitter and dirt-like, with no redeeming flavors, and the best are still pretty bitter at first, but sometimes develop more pleasant flavors. They are never as bad as a cup brewed from stale grounds, since they are almost always made from freshly ground beans. But they are still much more bitter than I’d like. As far as caffeine goes, a single shot has only a puny amount. A double is a little better, but I swear it’s still not nearly as strong as a good old cup of joe.
Still, I was excited to try espresso in Rome. Italians invented the espresso, and the art of pulling a good espresso is known to be cherished and perfected by Italian baristas (although you might find some of the world’s best baristas in Seattle). My thinking was: Israeli espressos are bad because Israeli baristas don’t put any thought into making them. Besides, almost no Israelis actually drink straight espressos, whereas many Italians do. Conclusion? I’d be sure to find great espressos in Rome.
Over the course of our trip, I drank about 6 to 8 espressos. They all tasted more or less the same. They were, admittedly, a little better than the average Israeli espresso. But I was expecting a drink that had a rich, complex flavor... and all I got was a drink that was still basically bitter and flat. Sitting on a cobbled Roman street enhanced the effect, but the flavor was unexceptional. More importantly, though, they were TINY, maybe an ounce of liquid. My cappuccino was slightly bigger, but still very small. These drinks were mere drops in my caffeine-collecting bucket. As embarrassed as I am to admit it, I couldn’t wait to get back to Israel for a cup of my cheap Elite instant coffee.
Now for the disclaimers. First, I always ordered single, rather than double espressos, because I didn’t know how and forgot to look it up and was too embarrassed to order in English. This may or may not have solved the lack of caffeine issue. Second, I realize that drinking several espressos over the course of the day, as Italians do, may accomplish the same thing as a large up in the morning. Third, I didn’t do any research regarding where to get really good espressos (we planned our trip in two hurried days, and internet was inaccessible for the majority of the trip itself). It’s unrealistic to expect that every barista in Rome pulls amazing espressos merely because he is Italian. It’s like pizza in NY, felafel in Israel, or any other regional treat. On a whole, quality is good because the ingredients are high quality and good techniques are in general practice, but to really get something delicious, you have to go to someone who applies care and skill to make it delicious. Most of the baristas who made me espresso were doing their jobs. They were making coffee the way they knew how, but didn’t necessarily have the will or the skill to make coffee that impressed me. Next time Rachel and I go to Italy (yes, I think there will be such a time), I will do my homework, and find those baristas.
Anyway, back to the vacation.
After breakfast we hopped on the Metro and exited across the Tiber, near the Vatican. After passing by the Castel Sant’Angelo area, we made our way down the Via della Conciliazione, a large boulevard that leads directly to the Piazza San Pietro, the enormous round plaza in front of St. Peter’s Basilica.
It seems superfluous to say that we “felt” like we were entering the headquarters of worldwide Christianity, because we actually were. I say “felt”, however, because despite the constant visual reminders one encounters on the street in Rome - churches galore, clergy of all stripes, and numerous stores selling what I can only describe as “Christaica” (crosses, figurines, candles and the like) - they represent merely a quantitative, rather than qualitative, increase in the density of something already familiar to two American Jews.
Approaching and entering the Vatican, however, brought about a palpable change. It was as if we’d been walking past a neighbor’s house every day of our lives, but only now step foot inside. I can’t speak for Rachel, but for the first and only time on our trip, and in a way that I don’t remember happening anywhere else, I truly felt like an outsider, a visitor.
In the midst of these meditations on personal identity, it began to rain. We had reached the rendezvous point for our tour, where everyone was huddled against the side of a building under the only available protection - a thing overhang. Stupidly, I bought a flimsy pink umbrella for 5 euro from one of the opportunistic merchants who had sprung up after the first drop. A fellow tourist subsequently told me that I could have given him anything, even far lower than this asking price, and the umbrella would have been mine. But before we had much time to brood on this loss, the tour guide arrived and we hurried indoors.
The tour guide was fantastic. She spoke into a microphone and each of us received a headset; this way we could hear clearly her among the crowds in the Vatican museum. She was never boring, even though she fed us a constant stream of information. And she must have been really smart, because she had a British accent. Finally, she convinced the ticket agent to let me in at the student price, despite my having forgotten my student ID in our room.
I am writing this post nearly two months after our trip, so it is hard to remember all the details of what we saw in the museum. That’s ok, because no one wants to read all the details anyway; that is what the internet is for. Instead, here is a bulleted list of cool highlights:
- The Sistine Chapel. This is what excites most tourists, and Rachel was no exception, especially since she was, at the time, in the middle of a historical fiction novel about the life of Michelangelo. While it was actually the second to last stop on the tour, we got our Sistine Chapel debriefing at the beginning. Our guide showed us large color photos of the various panels we’d be seeing, and told us the scenes being depicted in each one. I forgot many of them by the time we got there, but I was able to remember a few, like Yonah and the whale. Like many Orthodox shuls, the Chapel is a place that is supposed to be quiet, but instead is filled with the noise of lots of people quietly talking and the occasional shushing. As a former art student and a current Michelangelo fan, Rachel had a serious appreciation for the Sistine Chapel. The only thing that really struck me was how the entire inner surface - walls and ceiling - was covered in frescoes. It made me think of a person whose entire body is covered in tatoos.
- Tons of Greek and Roman statues. For a religion that is supposedly against paganism, the Vatican sure has a lot of statues depicting pagan gods. Not being Catholic, this lapse in dogma didn’t really bother us. It was a great chance to see ancient Greek and Roman sculpture in both marble and bronze, more than I’ve ever seen in a museum.
- Busts. Statues lite.
- Ancient mosaics. One was nearly 2,000 years old, and we were still allowed to walk on it.
- Bling. By “bling”, I do not refer to any one piece of artwork, but simply to the fact that every shred of the Vatican museum is made of of precious materials - marble, gold, silver, precious stones, you name it. The ceilings are gilded and painted, the walls and floors polished and decorated with elaborate carvings and such. A lot of money has flowed into this place over the years, folks.
- Tapestries. Really big and old and colorful.
- “The School of Athens”. Really famous fresco by Raphael. The painter, not the Ninja Turtle.
- Modern art I was not expecting. Including a painting by Salvador Dali
- Maps from like 400 years ago.
The tour ended at St Peter’s Basilica. If it hasn’t been mentioned by this point, we didn’t have any compunctions about going into churches, so we poked our heads into St. Peter’s. I don’t have much to comment on, other than its enormous size. The place is like an airplane hanger, but with stained glass. Rachel went to look at Michelangelo’s Pieta, and then I started to get uncomfortable lingering inside a church that looked like it was built for giants. Plus my feet were hurting. On the way out, we took a gander at the ridiculously dressed Swiss Guards of the Vatican. Did you know that being good looking is part of their job description? I’m serious. Rachel thought they were so so.
By the end of the tour, it was early afternoon, and we decided to try out a kosher restaurant in the southern part of Trestevere, near a street called Viale Guglielmo Marconi. We rode a bus down along the river, and then started off on foot. We crossed the river, only to find ourselves walking along a very sketchy looking road. Lots of tires and stuff were for sale. We were following the map, but the neighborhoods remained rather sketchy, and when we reached our final destination, the restaurant was closed.
Fortunately, there was a tram nearby, which brought us back to the familiar Ghetto, and a late lunch/early dinner. The evening was lost, however, because as soon as we finished it started to pour. We scampered to a bus stop and by the time we got off at our bed and breakfast it was coming down in buckets. By 8:30 PM we were stuck in our room with a storm outside, and no functioning TV, computer, or even wireless internet for Rachel’s iPod. Fortunately, we were exhausted, and we got ourselves a good night’s sleep.
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