20 Giugno, 2011. Keats and Shelley House.

In an attempt to reconnect with some academic subjects other than religion and classical art and mythology, I decided to steer clear of churches today (most museums are closed on Mondays, and this fact was a contributing factor to my decision). Instead, I headed out on my own toward the Spanish Steps, a landmark in Rome. I knew that somewhere nearby the steps there is located the apartment in which John Keats died.

Now, Romanticism isn’t normally my thing. I’m not really against it as an entire genre; I love Poe, for instance; but there are aspects of the movement that I find, for lack of a better word, irritating. Some of it just bugs me. I don’t really have any strong feelings against it – it’s just not really for me.

That being said, I’m just so sick of looking at marble statues and old churches that I would have welcomed the chance to go see almost anything else. Of course, my options in Rome are limited, so I chose the one place I could find that would provide me with some level of education (so I could feel like I did something productive today) as well as give me a break from the rest of Rome: the Shelley-Keats House Museum.

It certainly was a breath of fresh air. Probably my favorite thing about it was that it was an English oasis in the Italian desert. The curator was British, and the lady I bought the ticket from spoke perfect American English (I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that she was an American). I also happened to pick the right time to go, as I got to sit in on the majority of a lecture by the curator for a class of American students. I heard all kinds of cool stuff about the lives of Keats and Shelley for free.

After the lesson, I got to look around (pictures were allowed!) and saw the room where Keats died of tuberculosis and the urn that holds a piece of Shelley’s jawbone. I also saw Keats’ drawing of the Grecian urn, the subject of his famous “Ode to a Grecian Urn”. The collection also included an impressive number of letters written by the writers and their friends, and an official letter from Teddy Roosevelt (complete with White House letterhead and authentic signature) regarding the establishment of the house as a memorial/museum. My only complaint is that the entire museum only constituted about four rooms, but since it was a residence originally, I suppose it couldn’t be helped.

FUCK NAPOLI.

The title of this post is a bit different from my usual post headings. “Why is this so?” you may ask yourself. First, why are you talking to yourself, weirdo? Second, the reason for the overwhelming feelings of abhorrence that wash over me whenever I hear the word “Naples” (or “Napoli” to the locals) will become clear in due time.

We boarded a train headed for Napoli on Wednesday morning, June 15th, 2011. Aside from waking up early to catch the train and my soreness from wandering through the desert (Ostia Antica is not a desert--I understand this--it is however, deserted, so I stand by my word choice) the day before, I was in relatively good spirits. I even bought myself a neat “adventure hat,” as some of my classmates had taken to calling it. I don’t know the proper nomenclature for it, but it looks like a fisherman’s hat. The point is, I needed a hat so I bought one. And I enjoy wearing it. Plus, the brand of the hat is “Coronel Tapiocca” …is that some kind of Italian version of Engrish for “Colonel Tapioca?” And what the hell does that mean? Either way, it makes my ownership of it so much better.

The train ride was pleasant; our train car was air-conditioned and had outlets by the seats to plug our various electronic devices into. The ride took about an hour.

Upon leaving the train station, I noticed a stench in the air not unlike that of a dumpster, except diluted. It wasn’t unbearable, but it also wasn’t pleasant. I soon found out the reason for the stink: the streets were littered with garbage, and all of the garbage cans were overflowing. It looked like a bazaar had exploded all over the city. As it turns out, the garbage men were not on strike, as I had heard was the case (I forget who told me that; someone in Rome perhaps). The truth is that much of Napoli is controlled by organized crime, who control waste management services (go figure), and they have purposely either stopped trash collection or slowed it to a crawl with the intention of promoting the election of their pet politicians. These politicians’ campaign platforms involve cleaning up the city (literally, not in the sense of reducing crime – why would they want to do that?), among other things.

The bus we took to reach our hotel was crammed full of passengers. There was absolutely no personal space whatsoever… which was great for the guy who stole Sister Terri’s camera out of her bag, but was miserable for the rest of us. I spent the entire ride alternating between patting myself down to make sure my wallet was still where I left it and grasping my bags in a death-grip, cursing myself for not packing lighter. I thought I had had good fortune in getting a seat on the bus (which was mostly standing room), but discovered that my good fortune was merely misfortune in disguise when I had to disembark, which required me to force my way through a six-feet-thick wall of bodies comprised of mostly old men and (I assume) thieves.

I now faced a walk of indeterminate length, mostly uphill, to our hotel, the location of which we only had a vague sense. Turns out, no one in Napoli can give directions for shit. Either that or none of the people Domenica (our translator and a genuinely great person all-around) asked were willing to help, except that rather than just refuse to help, they mostly just made up directions to give us. I suppose it’s possible that none of them had heard of our hotel, but later on in the trip it happened again (actually it happened multiple times, usually with the same results), only this time we were asking where the train station was, and I refuse to believe that no one knew the location of something as prominent as a train station.

We finally found the hotel, which was actually very nice. The people were very friendly and helpful, and the accommodations were better than average. Hotel Toledo became our oasis in the desert of shit that was Napoli. I want to stress that I understand that there are some very helpful, friendly people in Napoli; unfortunately, the ones not on the staff of the hotel were in hiding for the duration of our stay.

After getting about a half-hour to settle into our rooms, we had to leave again to meet an archaeologist at the train station, who we had hired to show us around Pompeii. We headed back to the main station (the one we entered Napoli through), and ate a hurried lunch. We found out after about fifteen minutes that the archaeologist had decided to change our meeting point to a different station, and proceeded to head in that direction. This is where we had some trouble with directions, the locals being of differing opinions regarding the direction the station lay in.

The archaeologist herself was very nice and knowledgeable, so aside from my own physical misery, it was actually a lot of fun. Pompeii was really cool, and we got to see the inside of a villa being excavated, thanks to our guide and her friends (who were also very nice).

There were two areas in particular that I found interesting. The first was a public bath house. Apparently this also doubled as a whorehouse, because the frescos lining the walls of the locker-room (or its equivalent) depicted various sexual positions. And they were all numbered. It was a menu. “I’ll take a number four, hold the chlamydia.”

The other area I found fascinating was the Villa of the Mysteries. This was a villa on the outskirts of Pompeii that obviously belonged to a very wealthy family. It was very large, as far as Roman domūs (the plural of domus is domūs) go, and doubled as a winery. The really interesting part about it though, was a room in the back of the house depicting the initiation of a Dionysian priestess in frescos covering three sides of the room. They’re pretty well-preserved, too, save for a large chunk missing from the central panel.

I think everyone in the group was feeling on edge that whole day. Upon returning to Napoli from Pompeii, all I could think about was taking a shower and passing out. I wasn’t even hungry. But apparently when I wasn’t paying attention, the group voted to go out to dinner to the original pizza place (I’ve been sick of pizza since the end of our first week in Rome), a decision fueled largely by Sister Terri’s offer to pay for all of our meals. I was miserable and already uneasy about Napoli as a whole, but I had little say in the matter, as I had no clue where the hotel was in relation to our (then) current location. So I settled for making snarky comments the whole time, which, upon reflection, probably didn’t make anyone any happier. But I didn’t care.

This was another case of not knowing where the hell anything was, and so we decided to wait while Domenica asked some of the ever-so-helpful locals for directions. While this was going on, the entire group was standing on the increasingly sparsely-populated street, when out of nowhere a group of boys that couldn’t have been older than twelve stopped right next to us and started throwing around a soccer ball. It didn’t take long for the ball to get “accidentally” knocked our way, and one of the urchins threw his arms around me, as if he turned around suddenly to fetch the ball and didn’t see me there. “Bullshit” I thought to myself, and pushed him off of me. I knew damn well that this entire charade was meant to be a distraction so that another member of their group could pickpocket me or someone else in our group. I knew this not only because I had heard that this was a common ploy, but also, common sense told me that (1) groups of children don’t just suddenly decide to play ball in close proximity to a group of people who are obviously tourists when there is more than enough room literally ANYWHERE else on the street to play; and (2) unless the child was mentally handicapped, which he was not (I was able to determine this the second I saw him), a child simply does not just embrace a stranger unless he had an ulterior motive.

Needless to say, we decided that this was a great time to begin moving again, and we were able to find the restaurant in question. Sadly, they had a large group coming in shortly with reservations (of course), so we had to go elsewhere. Once we arrived at elsewhere (no idea what the name of the place was), I was a little more relaxed, but still tired and smelling of armpit marinated in balls. The place was tiny and we were loud (or rather, the others were loud; I was nearly asleep), and one of the locals eventually yelled as us to quiet down (I had to agree). Otherwise, the meal passed uneventfully, and we were finally able to return to the hotel. I slept hard that night. As hard as I could.

The next morning we set out for the docks, to catch the ferry to the Isle of Capri. Capri means “goats” in Italian, so it’s actually called the Island of Goats. I found that funny. But there were indeed goats there. We arrived on the island, and everyone wanted to go to the Blue Grotto, so I went along with them. The whole thing is a huge rip-off, with a fee (12 euro) to get on the motorboat, another fee (12.50) to get onto a rowboat, and a third fee (5 euro) to swim inside the grotto. The annoying part is that no one tells you when you buy the initial ticket that there are any more fees involved. I therefore opted to not enter the rowboat, and I saved some money. I definitely do not regret staying on the boat, but I do regret buying the initial ticket. That’s valuable beach time wasted!

There’s really nothing else to say about our day at the beach, other than it was a much-needed day off, and the water was beautiful.

We had all bought tickets for the return ferry that left at ten-to-eight, so we had all day to lounge on the beach and swim. When seven-fifty rolled around, we all boarded the ferry and waved goodbye to the island. I promptly fell asleep.

We disembarked and started walking back to the hotel. There were about twelve of us (all students; the professors had misheard the time of departure for the ferry and had to wait til the next one at ten twenty), but because we were all varying degrees of tired, the group dragged out until about half of us were trailing behind by about a block. On the main street leading up to the alley our hotel was on, when we were about two blocks from turning onto off of it, I heard the roar of a motor and a scream behind me. I turned, baffled and a little frightened, and saw Lauren disappearing into the alley we had just passed. A man riding a scooter had tried to snatch her purse as he rode by, but it was around her neck, so he ended up dragging her behind the scooter for about twenty feet until the strap on her purse broke. As this was happening, I had begun to run toward them, yelling, but it was over before I could reach her. Miraculously she was relatively unhurt, just a bit bruised and scraped up, and badly shaken. Also, her assailant had failed to get her purse.

We hustled back to the hotel, passing nearby locals who seemed unwilling to get involved (seriously, no one even said anything; they all just stared knowingly, as if they had seen it a hundred times before). I just glared at them and kept walking, expecting someone else to try something untoward. I heard a few scooters pass on the way back, flinching as I heard their motors. I think we were all deeply affected by this. Lauren was well-cared for by some of the other girls, and when the professors got back, they took her to the hospital, just in case. I had fallen asleep by the time they had returned, exhausted both mentally and physically by that point (I had glorious dreams of beating the crap out of the asshole on the moped), but I got the full story the next morning. Apparently the hospital staff were brusque but professional. The room Lauren was brought to was shared by a lady and her daughter, and she expressed great distress upon hearing Lauren’s story, saying that she felt ashamed for her city.

We decided that it would be best for everyone if we left that morning, and even took cabs to the train station, as none of us wanted to set foot on the streets of Napoli ever again.

We arrived safely back in Rome at around two-thirty Friday afternoon, and took the rest of the day off. I am writing this on Saturday (June 18^th), and things are back to normal for all of us, more or less. I’m truly grateful that no one was seriously injured, and that nothing was taken besides Sister’s camera, which really sucks, but it could have been far worse. I suspect the remainder of our excursions out of Rome will be largely uneventful, crime-wise.

14 Giugno, 2011. Ostia Antica.

So today we visited the site of Rome’s seaport, Ostia. That is, it used to be a seaport; now it’s an archaeological site and open-air museum. The word “ostia” means “mouth,” which is appropriate, because Ostia used to be located at the mouth of the Tiber. In fact, there is a plain where the riverbed once was, covered in tall grass. Over time the river changed its course, and eventually Ostia was abandoned.

The site is home to many beautiful mosaics, and the remaining structures, which are in relatively good shape (considering they’re about a thousand years old) give a great sense of the layout of the city. We passed rows and rows of storefronts, homes, and warehouses, with the occasional public bath and mithraeum (shrines where the Cult of Mithra worshipped; eighteen of them were found around the town) popping up. There was also an amphitheater, which was fully intact, and had great acoustics. We even met some of the current denizens of the ruins; some vibrantly-colored lizards and a very friendly cat, who followed us from the baths of Neptune, where we found him (her?), to the amphitheater and was even nice enough to pose for some pictures with us.

After a while of trekking around the ruins, some of the group opted to leave to go back to Rome. I probably should have joined them. Instead, I decided to visit the ruins of the oldest synagogue ever discovered in Europe, along with most of the rest of the group. Sounds exciting, right? That’s what I thought, too. I was mistaken. I assumed (wrongly) that the walk to the synagogue would be a short one, and certainly couldn’t be any farther than the distance we had already traveled. Turns out, it was located in the farthest corner of the Ostia area, a distance that seemed at least double that of the first part of our trek, which wasn’t really that bad, but it was hot and the street was paved with boulders. I think the combination of a lack of even ground to walk upon and the midday sun beating down on me made things way less tolerable than they could have been, but I persevered (mostly because I didn’t have any better ideas), and we eventually made it to the synagogue.

Or rather, we arrived at the ruins of what may have once been a synagogue. It was difficult to tell exactly how it was ever decided that this particular pile of bricks was any more synagogue-y than any of the other piles of bricks that we had passed to get there. There were no visible markings or structures that looked Jewish, only an inexplicable lamppost in the center of the structure and a completely incongruous modern art installation that reminded me of an Atari game. The artist’s name was Weinstein or something similar; I don’t really recall, but what stuck with me was the fact that the name was the only vaguely Jewish thing about the place. I have to assume that the archaeologists who discovered the site had good reason for deciding it was a synagogue, but whatever artifacts or markings that tipped them off they must have taken with them.

Had I any more energy, I would have been upset at this disappointment; I had none, so I trudged on back to the station to catch the train with the rest of the group. All in all, I’m glad I went, as I got some great photos and even better exercise, but my entire body decided to spend the next several days punishing me for it. The day when transplanting your brain into a robot body becomes a reality cannot come soon enough.

13 Giugno, 2011. Museo Ebraico.

I had hoped to return to the Etruscan Museum today, and indeed I did, only to find it closed. Apparently, many things close on Mondays in Rome. Perhaps I should have checked before making that trek. Oh well. I, along with the three classmates I made the trip with, decided to go to the Museo Ebraico (Jewish Museum) instead.

Today, we learned quite a bit about getting around by bus in Rome. I learned how to interpret the bus stop schedules with fair accuracy, and we discovered a bus that goes to Trastevere, one of the preferred neighborhoods in our group (it’s got all kinds of good restaurants and a great atmosphere overall). A far more practical lesson than most I’ve had on the trip so far, so I guess our failed visit to the Etruscan Museum had a silver lining.

The Jewish Museum houses some pretty incredible things. The first room of the collection houses beautiful, ornate tapestries. Some of these were Torah covers, while others were just wall-hangings. Some of the ones on display had actual gold and silver woven into them, and I think I overheard a couple’s private guide say that one of them took someone an entire lifetime to create. I kinda believed it; this thing was gorgeous. The museum houses almost 900 of these tapestries!

While waiting for the English tour to start, I had a look around at the other pieces of the collection. I saw at least one decorative (incredibly beautiful) version of just about every Jewish accessory/instrument/religious article that I could imagine. There was even a bris set. The items that really caught my eye, however, were the Hebrew engravings and calligraphy. I managed to surreptitiously snap a few photos of one or two of these, which I am including here. My Hebrew was limited to pronunciation (but not without vowels!), not meaning, and even my memory of that is shaky, at best. So, I settled for just enjoying the beauty of the elaborate calligraphy from an aesthetic standpoint.

Our tour began after a little while, and though our guide had a thick Italian accent, I made out most of the spiel. She took us first to a small synagogue within the museum itself, providing the men with kippot (yarmulkes) and the women with shawls (where necessary). She then told us the abbreviated history of the Jewish Romans. The Roman Jewish ghetto was established in 1555 by Pope Paul IV, in his bull, Cum nimis absurdum.

The Roman Jews actually had a bit of a better deal than in some other places. For instance, Rome never expelled the Jews, as so many other countries had. In fact, many of the displaced Jews from Spain, Portugal, and other countries ended up coming to Rome en masse. However, the sudden influx of inhabitants led to very cramped, disease-ridden living conditions. To make matters worse, the ghetto was located right on the banks of the Tiber River, the river that flows through Rome, which overflows every so often (and this was before walls were built to contain the flooding). Various other indignities plagued the Jews, such as not being allowed to have any possessions, a yearly tax and humiliating oath of loyalty (to the Pope), compulsory Christian sermons on the Sabbath, and their being forbidden to mark the graves of their dead. Their lot fluctuated somewhat based on whoever was in power at the time, but many of the Popes were pretty consistently dicks to the Jews. The ghetto was disbanded briefly in 1798 when the Republic took over the papal states (this lasted no more than a year), and then again in 1848, which lasted less than two years. The ghetto was formally disbanded in 1882, and the ghetto itself was demolished six years later. Then in the 1930s, a fella by the name of Adolph came along… you know the rest.

Our guide also brought us into the main synagogue in Rome, though she said it is only used for weddings and other special occasions these days. She also told us that Pope John Paul II visited the synagogue, the first Pope in history to do so. Apparently the new guy also visited them; though she seemed less enthusiastic about that (I wonder if his days in Hitler Youth had anything to do with that).

All in all, the visit was very informative. I’m glad I chose to visit the Jewish Museum; it was certainly a much-needed break from the tour of Roman churches. I don’t actually consider myself Jewish anymore, but the time I spent in my youth as a part of the Jewish faith certainly made the visit much more meaningful for me.

12 Giugno, 2011. Etruscan Museum in Villa Giulia.

Ok, contrary to the title of this post, the actual date of my visit to the Museo Nazionale Etrusco di Villa Giulia was the eleventh (I am writing this on the twelfth, hence the heading – also, I didn’t really feel the need to discuss what I saw today). I just went alone while just about everyone else went to the Gay Pride Parade. I have absolutely nothing against gay people (do whatever makes you happy), but I absolutely detest Lady Gaga, who was in attendance at the parade and was set to perform at its conclusion. So I opted out and instead went to the Etruscan museum. I made the right choice. The museum itself is housed within the Villa Giulia, which was built between 1550 and 1555 by Pope Julius III (he commissioned it, he didn’t actually build it). The grounds of the villa itself are beautiful, and seeing as how I could only take pictures outside, the images you see before you are of the outdoor areas of the villa.

The museum itself houses tons of incredible artifacts, dug up from various Etruscan burial mounds dotting the Italian peninsula. The collection is representative of several different periods of Etruscan craftsmanship, and these different periods/areas of origin are all wonderfully distinct. It was amazing to see how their different interactions with other contemporary cultures influenced their own art. For example, a whole section of the pieces looked Greek, while others looked Egyptian. The entire collection was too massive to take in in one visit, so my plan is to return, perhaps with others in the group, most likely tomorrow. I’d have more to say about the experience, but I forgot to take my notebook out of my bag before I checked it at the door, and, like I mentioned earlier, photos weren’t allowed (even without flash). Further contributing to this lack of info was the fact that all of the description cards in the exhibit were in Italian. The larger informational panels were in Italian and English, however, and I did learn a bit from those (but, again, no notes; and my memory sucks for these kinds of things. This is why I’m terrible in history classes). I intend to remedy this upon my return, however, so maybe tomorrow I’ll have more to say.

11 Giugno, 2011. Catacombs of St. Callixtus. St. John Lateran. Santa Maria (meridian line).

The Catacombs of St. Callixtus were our first destination this morning. Located just off the famous Appian Way, these catacombs were used by early Christians to bury their dead. This site is gigantic, the galleries covering a total of 12 miles, spread over four levels. The two most notable parts of our tour were the Crypt of the Popes, and the Crypt of St. Cecilia. The Crypt of the Popes is the burial chamber where nine early popes (2^nd-4^th century CE) were interred. St. Cecilia’s Crypt was the location of St. Cecilia’s body until the 9^th century, when it was moved to her basilica in Trastevere (historically, the Jewish district in Rome).

The entire experience seemed to last maybe thirty minutes (it may have been longer, but I guess I expected more). Honestly, the best parts about any catacomb, for me, are the inscriptions, paintings/mosaics/frescoes, and the semiotics contained therein. Unfortunately, the tour didn’t focus nearly enough on these aspects of the catacombs for me. I get why we need a tour guide; they can’t trust just any tourist with ancient artifacts, but I wish we were given more time to explore a bit. Though given the layout of all of the catacombs we’ve seen thus far, I’d be concerned about getting lost (so, I guess that’s another reason for the guide). I know! They could just provide us with a ball of string to use to find our way out again, like Theseus in the Labyrinth. That would likely result in misfortune however, as many people are dumb.

Along with several of my peers and our professors, I opted to visit the Papal Archbasilica of St. John Lateran, as it was on the way back to our dorms. This has got to be the largest single structure (at least the façade gives it that feel) I’ve seen yet. It is gigantic. I had to crane my neck to make out the statues lining the top of it (although backing up several hundred feet would have worked too). Needless to say, I was awestruck. We entered, and I immediately noticed a panel above me and to my left. Or, rather, I should say that I immediately noticed the yawning, tooth-encrusted maw of some mythical beast carved into the rock (above me and to my left). I was entranced. Although I’m still unsure about the scene depicted in the panel, I enthusiastically snapped pictures of it, intent on capturing the beast for later examination.

The next spectacle vying for my attention was a giant statue of St. Bartholomew, or so it was labeled (I certainly wouldn’t have been able to identify him without asking someone or consulting the internet). The first thing that stood out about him (as opposed to the other eleven statues of the apostles) was the human skin he was holding. That’s right. Human skin. Apparently, as one tradition goes, his martyrdom involved his getting skinned alive (though I’m sure he began the skinning process while breathing, I very much doubt that he lasted very long into it). So he’s holding his own skin. Nifty. I actually was reminded of a similar figure in the Sistine Chapel, who was also emulating Buffalo Bill in carrying around a skin suit. Turns out it’s the same guy (I looked it up. Thanks internet!). There were a ton of other things in St. John Lateran that I thought were cool, but… I mean, come on! How do you top the skin-suit guy?

Moving on… Our next short side-trip was to the site of the Diocletian Baths, which is now just several buildings and a piazza with a really large fountain in the middle (though some of the original structure was used in these buildings). The frigidarium of the baths, or the cold-water section, is now the location of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, a basilica incorporating the façade of the frigidarium, and our next stop.

The door we entered the church through was particularly striking. I later looked it up, and discovered that it was designed by Igor Mitoraj, and installed in 2006. Inside of Santa Maria etcetera, we found a meridian line, or a large linear sundial. Pope Clement XI commissioned Francesco Bianchini to design it for a few reasons. He wanted to test the accuracy of the Gregorian calendar, as well as use it to predict Easter with greater accuracy. He also wanted Rome to have its own meridian line, as Bologna had gotten one recently and wouldn’t shut up about it. He’d show those obnoxious Bolognese… Anyway, the line works by using the sun’s position in the sky to tell time and all kinds of other neat stuff (if you’re interested, Wikipedia’s article on the church has the details).

10 Giugno, 2011. Musei Vaticani.

Wow. I actually never knew that the Vatican had a museum inside it. It makes perfect sense, I guess it's just never occurred to me. Anyway, it is gigantic! We spent a good three hours (or so), and we really spent more time traveling between exhibits of interest than we did actually looking at the collection. And yet it felt like we barely scratched the surface of the massive collection. Saying that every inch of wall, ceiling, and floor was covered in various pieces of the collection would only be a very slight exaggeration. I suspect a thorough walkthrough of the entire complex would take at least a week.

The first thing we sought out was the Sistine Chapel, which, it turns out, was only accessible through what felt like a half mile of hallway, which was lined with tapestries. The slaughter of the innocents was the theme of some of these tapestries, meaning they depicted scenes of babies being stabbed, which wasn't as disturbing as it sounds; rather, I found the concept and execution of the whole thing rather ridiculous, and shared a good laugh about it with Dr. Sebastian.

The Sistine Chapel itself was honestly kind of a letdown, particularly after every other absurdly ornate church and museum we've visited so far. That's not to say it wasn't impressive; it was, very much so. But I guess it just didn't live up to the hype. Though Antonia was quick to point out that it was Michaelangelo's first painting gig, and I had to agree, that knowledge made it much more impressive.

Not to detract from any of the ancient/pre-modern art works (all of which I loved), but my favorite piece was actually a work by modern Italian sculptor Arnaldo Pomodoro, called Sfera. It's a gigantic golden sphere. It's apparently one of a series of similar gigantic metal spheres.

Unfortunately, after about two and a half hours in the museum, I was done with it. That is, done with looking at art. Of any kind. Just done. All I wanted to do was get something to eat and shut off my brain for the rest of the day (ideally for the next three days). I miss video games. I'll likely feel differently tomorrow, but for now I'm sick of cultural experiences. Just saying.

9 Giugno, 2011. Galleria Borghese.

This morning I found myself in a beautiful park on a gorgeous day (perfect weather!). The path we entered the park upon quickly brought us to a stately three-story palazzo. This was the Galleria Borghese, which I later found out was extremely popular, with admission available only to advance ticketholders. I shortly discovered the reason for its popularity: the collection this gallery houses is incredible. Aside from an impressive collection of 1^st-3^rd century CE classical sculptures, the galleria also houses several Caravaggios and Berninis, as well as works by Raphael, Titian and Rubens.

I spent a little over an hour awestruck, wandering from room to room, completely immersed in aesthetic bliss. Toward the end of my time in the galleria, I became so dazed by the sensory overload that I had to go outside and sit down. The Bernini sculptures were, by themselves, overwhelming. The incredible level of detail, right down to the armpit hair of Pluto, was enough to render me speechless. The sculptures looked as if they would start moving any second. I believe that if I touched Proserpina, she would be warm under my fingers.

I must admit, I’ve never known very much about art. I’ve only heard of most of these artists, and if asked to identify their styles, or even their mediums, I’d often be at a loss. But today I learned that Bernini is my favorite sculptor, and it would be very difficult for another to surpass him in my esteem. My ignorance of art is by no means indicative of an aversion, however. I’ve always been a sucker for talent in any medium or discipline, and I doubt that will ever change.

On a side note, I went into the gallery this morning with the belief that “Borghese” was simply the Italian form of “Borgia”.

In case you haven’t heard this name before, the Borgia family was a prominent and powerful European family during the 15^th-16^th centuries. Among its members were three popes and a saint. The family was notorious for their political machinations, corruption, and ruthlessness. Three of its members in particular were well-known for using their status to literally get away with murder. Rodrigo Borgia, also known as Pope Alexander VI, had multiple mistresses and was known for his corruption and greed. Cesare Borgia, one of Rodrigo’s illegitimate sons, was under suspicion of killing his own brother to pave his own way up the power ladder, and was otherwise well-known for his brutality. In one account by the contemporary historian Johann Burchard, he closed off the St. Peters’ square and had prisoners, including women and children, bound and placed in the center of the square. He then mounted a war-horse and proceeded to brutally hack the prisoners to bits from atop the charger, until only he remained in the square, along with a bloody, pulpy mess. While this was happening, his father and sister, Lucrezia, watched from a balcony. Lucrezia Borgia was probably more of a tool for her father to gain power by marrying her to potential allies, but she was also reputed to have been fond of poisoning people, and was a very skilled politician in her own right.

Also, Innocent X, a member of the Pamphilj family, was the great-great-great-grandson of Rodrigo Borgia. You may remember from my previous post that the Pamphilj family was the owners of the galleria I visited yesterday. Though this means nothing, I found it an interesting coincidence.

I’ve strayed from my original point, which was that I believed the Borghese family, owners of the Galleria Borghese and the collection it houses, to be one and the same as the Borgia family. I have, upon further research, discovered this belief to be a mistake, at least as far as I can tell. Everything I’ve been able to find out about the two families has talked about them as two separate entities, though both families have members who have become popes, and both were big patrons of the arts.

I’d like to end this post with something completely unrelated. In my various internet searches, I have stumbled upon something which delights me. I hope it delights you too:

http://www.amazon.com/James-Earl-Jones-Reads-Bible/dp/1591502241

That’s right. The velvety-throated James Earl Jones. Darth Vader. Reading the King James Bible. That is all.