The Vatican
It was generous of Rome, I suppose. My very first trip to Italyâs capital, and to provide me with the most authentic experience possible, Rome felt like it was actually burning. Every moment of the three days I spent there was like walking on coals. Across the sun. Wearing aluminum foil. I mean, it was hot.
The locals nicknamed the heatwave Lucifer, after the FOX TV show about the devil partnering with a female detective to solve crimes (and maybe â fall in love!). Or perhaps it was named after the devil him or herself (#feminism) because it was absolutely the temperature of pure evil.
My Vatican excursion, and my time in Italy as a whole, was about midway through a 6-week solo trip across Europe. I had just been laid off from my job, had a small but not unexciting cancer scare and had moved back to New York to help my mother sell her house after my dadâs recent death (which is a better narrative than I moved back home because I was homeless and jobless). I took my generous severance and like the good millennial I am, decided to blow most of it on THE TRIP OF A LIFETIME.Â
I looked around at the state of my life: Single and in my mid-thirties, I had no real-life responsibilities other than the crippling debt I had come to know as a friend and life partner. Rebecca, the name I gave my debt monster in my late twenties, would certainly be waiting for me upon my return to keep me warm during all my most visceral debt-induced panic attacks. Plus, with no job prospects to speak of, and no real urge to start the arduous process of job hunting, it was time to Eat, Pray, Shlub through Europe. Basically, at thirty-six years old, I finally took my gap year.
My plan was simple: Iâd just go to The Vatican, pay whatever I had to skip the line and zip through the whole thing in thirty minutes, forty if the gift shop had Pope Pun t-shirts (Snap, Crackle, POPE; A picture of The Pope in his Popemobile that said: My Other Ride Is Your Mom). Iâd be getting yelled at for drinking espresso on the Spanish Steps by lunch.
I donât like to brag but... being wrong about life choices, is kind of the defining characteristic of my overall personal brand. If two roads diverged in a wood, Iâd somehow manage to climb the tree separating the two paths, get stuck up there and die of exposure. Itâs just who I am, you guys. But in the lifetime of lefts that shouldâve been rights, Iâve never been as wrong about anything as I was about The Vatican. Like all good horror stories, this was my âLetâs check out the abandoned campâ or âLetâs bone in the lake â no oneâs around!â moment I would come to regret later.
By this point in my overall trip, I had achieved this odd mix of overconfidence in my ability to be a capital-T Tourist, with a nearly pathologically unreasonable disdain for tours, guides and waiting in line. Especially if that line was just a pre-line to get on line or even worse a queue before a line that led to a holding area before you could get in line. This sort of living purgatory happens a lot when you are traveling to the most touristy places on the planet. I get that. But as an Ugly American, I simply felt I should be able to get exactly what I wanted when I wanted it and if I couldnât, throw money at the problem until I get my way. (I was not the best representation for our country during my time abroad, although I may have, sadly, been a fairly accurate one. For that I apologize. To the world.)
My smug confidence in my plan to zip in and out of The Vatican in roughly the amount of time it would take to watch the first two episodes of the new season of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt was bolstered by a successful trip on the Rome subway system. Well, maybe Iâm being generous with the use of the word successful: As I left my hotel, I immediately walked up to a fully armed French soldier, frantically asking where the entrance to the subway was located. With a language barrier separating us he physically turned my body around to show the entrance to the train all of 15 feet away from me. From there on out, though, it was smooth sailing. I took this as a particularly good sign:Â
When I got out of the subway I was just a few blocks away from The Vatican, and despite that, I arrived drenched in so much sweat I could have easily been baptized where I stood. I ducked and weaved past several aggressive guides trying to recruit me for their tours; I wonât fall for your shenanigans, mio amico. I actively felt bad for the tourists, trying to navigate the fast, smooth talking tour guides, fanny packs askew, cameras strapped to their chests. This isnât my first rodeo, you charlatans! As I got closer and closer to the The Vatican, however, the line to enter the building got longer and longer; I started to feel the first twinge of doubt about my ability to self-navigate a place visited by 20,000 people every damn day.
Seeing the disappointment crest over my face, a tour guide pounced. âYou need a tour pass to get in,â he said quietly, calmly, like he didnât need my business. He was Indian or Middle Eastern, wearing a button-down shirt and slacks, which I found comforting. I knew he must be baking in the sun, and this, along with the Vatican badge he sported, convinced me he was a bit more official.
âI just want to skip the line,â I responded, almost to myself, like a child quietly crying, trying to convince himself there are no monsters lurking under his bed.
âI can help you with that,â he shrugged. He said it in such a nonchalant way he made me think he was part of the actual Vatican team - whatever that meant - and not just another ravenous tour guide trying to make a sale. I held onto that belief as we sprinted down the block, I held onto that belief as we dodged cars as we crossed a busy intersection and I held onto that belief for the entire time I stood in a small windowless basement room getting signed up for the tour I was being sold. Itâs a miracle I havenât been murdered.Â
I had forty-five minutes to kill, so I grabbed a pork cheek sandwich, washed down with several beers. After being defeated, tour-wise, I was helpless against the remarkably pushy saleswoman at a nearby clothing store. Before my years of retail work could snap me out of my daze I got talked into buying a pair of shorts I didnât need, a button-down short-sleeved shirt that didnât fit and a pair of swim trunks so short, they appropriately left no question about my religion. Â
Pork cheek and Italian beer stuffed in my belly and unnecessary purchase stuffed into my backpack, I was now ready to be blessed. A crowd started to form under the six branches of shade the anemic tree outside the tour office provided. The excitement was palpable, and I could feel it split into three different categories: 1) Religious-based fervor about the holy place we were about to enter; 2) Excitement about seeing one of the most famous attractions in the world; 3) Elation about entering a room with air conditioning.
Now that it was time to start making our way back the few blocks to the Vatican, our tour guide assembled us to share a few rules, which sounded eerily similar to what you hear lawyers telling people about visiting family members in prison. I donât recall the guideâs name, because I sweat that information out, along with my ability to do long division. I do remember that he was at least 150 years old and I kept wondering how I would go about getting my ticket off his body if he dropped dead. This trip took me to some dark places.
Just as I was about to hit send on a text message letting my family know that when I arrived back home, Iâd be nothing more than a puddle of salty water, we arrived at the heavily guarded gates of The Vatican. Even though we were on the expedited line, it still took thirty minutes to cross the threshold into the room that would lead us through security and into the actual start of the tour. The lobby was stuffy and packed with people, herded like some meta interpretation of cattle-as-tourists-as-cattle. There we waited. And waited. And waited.
As you do in times of crisis, I attached myself to other survivors. In this case, a family of three - parents in their late-thirties and a three or four year-old child, sweaty and rightfully miserable in his stroller. By now it had been ninety minutes since entry, and I was trying to sow the seeds of rebellion into my compatriots: âWeâve been waiting here for a while.â
âYeah, little man is getting tired,â the father said back to me, absently but not with the tone of annoyance I was trying to cultivate. To the kidâs credit, he wasnât throwing a fit, just uncomfortable, and his cries were more like muffled sobs of someone resigned to their fate but not very happy about it.
âHeâs just expressing how we are all feeling. I think itâs brave,â I said, almost catatonic.
âIâm sure weâll be in soon. Itâll be worth it,â the mother said. I was stunned by her optimism and determination. I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her: You fool! We are never going to leave this room! Donât you see? Donât you get it? Weâre Vatican Lobby people now! Â
Instead, I got angry, probably for the first time in the whole experience. I had been frustrated, and impatient, and hot â dear sweet heaven, it was hot - but this made me mad. Not at the woman, trying to cool down her son with precious elixir known as bottled water. Not at her husband, steely eyed but still eager to see the wonders that awaited beyond the security. I was mad because these people were there for a beautiful, powerful experience that deeply mattered to them. I noticed, for the first time, the crosses they all wore, glistening through sweat and waves of heat. This whole time I couldnât fathom what would possess these seemingly normal people to weather this heat to take their kid on an excursion into a big building with art and religious artifacts. As a well-established quitter, there were five times I wouldâve turned around and tried another day. To me, this was something to check off a list. Going to Rome, potentially for the only time in my life, Iâd need to see The Vatican to say that I had seen The Vatican. Donât get me wrong, I was excited â at least initially. But that excitement waned pretty quickly, as I became less a tourist and more a contestant in a co-ed Spring Break wet t-shirt contest for hairy men with man boobs. Â These people were there for spiritual and holy reasons; this was a pilgrimage for them. Â As someone who spent the last ten years trying to improve user and participant experience, I was offended that these people â and the thousands with them â werenât getting an experience they deserved.
Just as I was ready to take a torch to the place, we started moving. Our tour guide, thankfully still alive, started handing out the tickets we needed to get through security. The other members of the tour swarmed him, and in a move that proves I would not survive any kind of Zombie Apocalypse, I let the family of three go ahead of me to get their tickets, even though I wasnât entirely confident I wouldnât be left without tickets, stuck in Godâs literal waiting room. Once they had their tickets, however, I elbowed my way to the front and got my pass. I felt like a boy of thirty-three again! I was going to make it. We were going to get through this â together.
Only the second we made it through the security, my fight or flight instincts kicked in and I ran for it. The idea of standing around for the next three hours with this group of people and this old man who looked like a half-melted statues come to life, was too much for me. I took a last glance at the family of three. Â Despite my urge to fight for their experience and the polite conversation we made, Iâm certain my existence barely registered for them, but I felt a kinship with them in the story I was creating in my mind. I stretched out my hand, mouthed âStay alive!â and ran up the stairs, hiding â I HID â from my tour. It had become clear to me that I had lost my mind.
Once I was sure the tour had passed, I found the closest information desk and asked: âWhat is the fastest way to see everything?â I was handed a map and a look of disgust, and was on my way.
The next two hours were both a blur and happened in super slow motion. There were so many people in this sarcophagus of a building that I couldnât concentrate on anything. I abandoned the audio tour within the first 10 minutes; it could still be under the oddly attractive statue of the guy with the dog for a head. Every way I moved I bumped into people â and was it just me or was it getting even hotter? Could they have air conditioning in The Vatican? And where was the Pope? I was told there would be a Pope! How was the family of three doing? Would I ever see my mom again? Should I re-watch Veronica Mars? My mind couldnât stop.
As I descended further into madness, a single thought snapped me out of it. I realized why this kind of oppressive human smog and sensory overload was so familiar and unsettling: It was just like being at Ikea on a Saturday afternoon. And much like Ikea, there was only one way in and one way out. âThe only way was through,â I actually said out loud to no one in particular. Steeling myself, I became determined to see The Sistine Chapel and get the hell out of there.
I began walking with more purpose, following the signs to the Sistine Chapel, which was never as close as promised (just like Swedish meatballs at Ikea!). I snapped a few pictures, mostly to take a look at later. I stopped and stared at some art and looked up to appreciate a ceiling or two. Cool cool cool cool cool â whereâs the exit?
Now, months after my escape, I canât remember if I descended higher and higher or lower and lower to reach The Sistine Chapel, but I finally got there. And it was⊠disappointing. Or maybe it wasnât? Iâm not sure because you couldnât actually stop and look at the ceiling, which admittedly was beautiful. You had to keep going, keep going, keep going, like Dory from Finding Nemo. I didnât think Iâd be making comparisons to an Ellen DeGeneres-voiced cartoon character to describe seeing one of the most famous sites in the world, but here we are.
That feeling of anger began to wash over me again. I am not a very religious person, nor an art or history buff (I know, Iâm the worst), but I am someone who likes a well-run and well-executed event. And this was neither. I kept thinking about that family or any religious person I knew, not just going to The Vatican because they were in Rome and âthey should goâ, but rather as a truly holy rite of passage. I may not share those views, but I do think they deserve an experience that reflects their devotion to the church. Maybe that family had a great time, maybe this filled their bucket, but if not, I have a strongly worded letter to the head of The Vatican (The Pope? God?) about some logistical and user experience enhancements.
Once I was prodded through The Sistine Chapel, all other thoughts left my mind other than Lakeith Stanfield screaming GET OUT. I felt like a rat trying to burrow through a manâs chest to survive in Game of Thrones. Yes, maybe that heat I was feeling was the flames of hell trying to suck me in because, well, I wasnât being my most pious self. And yes, I did make myself a rat burrowing through human flesh in that analogy, but that doesnât make it untrue. Like any time Iâve ever been to Ikea, it was time to forget about everything that you cared about when you entered, fight the tourists and find the way out.Â
I began to walk faster, now only snapping pictures of things while I was physically walking by them. Everywhere I went, I bumped into a German tourist, who seemed, to be blocking me. I wanted to scream: WHY DO YOU WANT ME TO STAY HERE? WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR!?!?! It felt like days since I had seen the sun or felt the steaming hot gust of Roman air on my face. I wondered: Would I be different now? What had changed in the world? Do proper hover boards finally exist?
Thirty minutes later, I burst through doors and was free to leave⊠ooh the gift shop! I bought a few rosary beads for friends who would appreciate them, but alas no Pope shirt that had his face superimposed on a bunch of Emojis.
From there I walked briskly to what I knew would be doors leading to the outside. I was an inside person now, and worried that the daylight would burn on my skin after so long. When I arrived in the courtyard of St. Peter Basilica it took all my strength not to drop to my knees, arms stretched to the sky a la Andy Dufrense at the end of Shawshank Redemption.
I walked around St. Peter Basilica for a bit and headed to a pizza place I had read about. I stumbled in like a man out of the dessert begging for water. I ordered a local beer and the house special pizza. The pizza arrived perfect, beautiful, profoundly satisfying.Â
It was the closest I felt to God all day. Â