Above the relentless torrent - Vatican Museums

Shoulder-to- shoulder, breast-to-back, the hoards shuffle through the narrow corridors, eyes down to avoid stepping on heels, occasionally glancing guiltily over each other’s heads at the skilfully carved stone or finely painted maps that decorate the walls of this rigid channel.

Tuned in to the guide’s rapid-fire explanations, they nod automatically – as long as they can hear her on their earbuds, they know she’s within radio range.

In front of priceless Flemish tapestries, monumental figures battling over delicate landscapes; arms raised with iPhones and long-lensed cameras fire flashes that fade the delicate colours.

Logjams gather where families pose for photos with historic frescoes of famous battles and martyrdoms.

Raphael and Fontana, Bernini and Boromeo fail to register.

The relentless flow pushes past a collection of modern art – ignoring Chagalls and Dalis only steps away – and spills through a small doorway into the celebrated Sistine Chapel.

Straining our necks, we peer upward into the vivid colours and taunt muscles of Michelangelo’s angry old God, jostled by the endless flow of new arrivals, assaulted by uniformed guards shouting for silence.

But this time, the Chapel wins out. Despite the restless carpet of upturned faces, the azule-backed Last Judgement swirls hefty nude figures of saints and sinners around a dynamic Christ, stepping out into the soaring space in Renaissance 3D.

If we stop… and take a deep breath. If we block out the bored children and offensive guards … and focus on the massive, fleshy figures emerging from the deep blue wall, they begin to breath. Silken drapery shifts over flexing muscles, fiery eyes seek you out, outstretched arms twitch as the screams of the damned lift above the forbidden tourist din. Michelangelo, this sculptor turned painter, created life on another plane. His genius lifts us up above the shuffling crowd and waving batons of the guides, and for a moment, the indignity is worthwhile.

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Roman October

I lean my head back and close my eyes. The sunlight splashes against my closed lids, dappled by the broad leaves of the plane trees overhead. The hot sun of a Roman October warms my face, tempered by an exquisite chilled breeze.

For minutes I let the sun-shadow patterns play across my lids, then lift my head and look around.

From my perch on top of an open-air tourist bus, I watch the newsreel of Roman monuments move majestically by me.

• The wedding cake monument to Vittorio Emmanuel, first king of a united Italy, starkly white against the endless Mediterranean sky;

• the broad plane of Circus Maximus where roman chariots once raced below the terraces of the Palatine;

• the jewel-like bridges over the Tiber – rhythmic white arches over the swirling dark waters, topped with clusters of carved marble figures;

• the brutish Castel San Angelo , built to be Hadrian’s tomb but fashioned into a defensible Papal retreat;

• the elegant, square-domed synagogue on the banks of the Tiber proclaiming the old Jewish Quarter around Campo de Fiori;

• and at the top of the Via della Conciliazione, grand fascist avenue from the 30s, squats St. Peter’s, its pincher colonnades and regal façade by Bernini drawing the eye into Michelangelo’s magnificent dome.


The bus lumbers through the broad avenues of the Italian capital, under the warm October sun – cruising Via Veneto , Via Cavour, and Via Nazionale, leaving the sights in amongst the tangled alleys – the Pantheon, Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain – for another day.

But the cruising bus gives me a piano nobile view of the magnificent palaces and exquisite churches, the lush umbrella pine trees over picturesque squares, and clustered sidewalk cafes where elegantly dressed romans share space with shorts-clad, t-shirted tourists.


I’ve walked miles in Rome, and have photo-album memories of its main sights. But never before have I sewn it all together, seen the interplay between ancient, renaissance and modern, felt the flow of the neighbourhoods, understood the relationship between Santa Maria Maggiore and St. Peter’s, the Forum and the Coliseum.



Under the sun of a Roman October, the city begins to make sense to me.

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Slipping into an old skin

I’ve been sedentary for 5 months now, settled back into a comfortable routine of work, rowing and occasionally family. The summer in Toronto has flown by in a warm, sunny blur, mostly seen through windows , and autumn rushed in shrouded in dark, heavy rain clouds.

But today, I’m sitting at the airport, my trusty and now worn backpack at my ankle and my old netbook companion balanced on my knees. I feel a warm loosening in my shoulders – tension slowly easing out of my muscles. Why, I wonder, does the hassle of travel feel so good?

When I had returned home from my southern hemisphere travels this spring, I had been surprised by the speed with which I had re-acclimatized. I was back at work and happily writing reports within days. Had the vagabond feeling of the world traveller evaporated so quickly?

“It must be hard to be back”, friends and colleagues announced. Nope.

According to Michelle, my penpal/sister in Argentina, the transition was eased because I had been able to create two “me’s” – a notion I relish. I’ve come to call them ‘home Jordan’ and ‘travel Jordan’. Rather than having to re-adapt to life on the road, I simply slip into my other ‘me’ and I’m on my way.

So today, I’m heading off to Rome with a few pieces of clothing in my backpack, and 9 days to meander. Coming with me on my journey, my partner and seasoned fellow-traveller Francisco, and his mother and aunt –both happily warbling about seeing the Vatican.







Photo: Francisco and his mother keep "Thor" company at the airport.