Suddenly Billy Cuttingham cried out, “Hey, that’s not a building or church. Casper is cheating! Mrs. Andrews, you should give him an F.” My pal Billy, always looking out for me. Mrs. Andrews turned toward him and gave him her Quiet, Billy look.
She looked at the class and said, “I have to say, everyone, all your drawings look very good, but I had to stop at Paul’s. I know some think he’s not doing what he’s supposed to do by drawing something out of the box. Something so different. I know Billy especially thinks this.”
Again, she turned to him, giving him the evil eye. “But I have to say, Paul has stopped me in my tracks. I just never expected anything like this.”
Just then Chrissy Johnston informed those who didn’t know, “Yea, he’s a good artist. Mrs. Hart in art class is always talking about his work and hanging it up.”
Mrs. Andrews watched me for a long while but said no more before she got up to continue with the class. As I walked out, she called me over to her desk. She said she hadn’t wanted to say too much about one person’s work over the others, but now in person, she could. She said I had a special talent. Not only could I draw what I saw; I could see things differently, as an artist would. She was going to hang up some of the drawings in the room, but mine would be hung in the hallway with a sign telling kids they could look at the others when the room was empty. Taking out a box of notepaper, she wrote a quick note to my Mother, saying she believed I had a special talent and hoped that my mother knew this and would nurture it going forward. She put the note in an envelope and said, “Please give that to her tonight.”
I smiled to myself; I hadn’t thought about that moment for quite a while. It gave me confidence at a time when I sorely needed some. Thank you, Mrs. Andrews. I began to sketch again, no horse this time, but a quick study of St. Peter’s in the fading Roman afternoon light.
As the sun set, I remembered yesterday, before we went to the Spanish Steps. I had spent some time on a bridge overlooking the Tiber, the third largest river in Italy that flows through the middle of Rome, on my way to the Coliseum. Once there, I sat for hours imagining the goings-on of over 2000 years ago. I was so moved by being in the actual place and structure where the events I had read about or seen in movies had occurred. These became real in the in the Coliseum, a place alive with the vivid and mysterious spirits of the past.
I finished my sketch and thought that my Mother would love to see it. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t sent any postcards home recently about what I was doing or what my plans were. When I was in Paris, I knew I was going to Istanbul and dropped a postcard to my Mother, Father and younger sister Joyce to let them know. When I decided to go to Athens, I sent another postcard urging everyone to contact me in care of the American Express office in that city. But it had been a month and no word from home. Strange, but I hoped it was par for the course for mail going back and forth at that distance.
When I got back to the apartment, Doug was packing. He had found a hotel, and casually mentioned what it would cost. There was no way; it was too expensive for me and I couldn’t join him. We had been together since we had arrived in Paris, but he understood my situation, wished me luck and walked out the door. Not how I would have liked us to part, but it was inevitable, and I had bigger problems. I needed to out of the girls’ apartment by dark. It looked like I’d be sleeping at the railroad station.
I was ready to say goodbye to the girls when they surrounded me and said, “You’re not going anywhere. We’re going to make it okay for you to stay a while longer. You can believe us or not what we told you guys about the landlord. But what mattered to us was that they needed to go; the vibe wasn’t right. On the other hand, your vibe is wanted around here.”
They took me out to dinner that night and gave me a great briefing on what to see at St. Peter’s the next day. The girls really were angels, smart ones at that. I wondered, were they living Jake Barnes’ life in 1970, expatriates looking for…? Good question; what were they looking for?
Monday morning, I got up early, ready to start my day at St. Peter’s. I was glad I got the lay of the land the other day when I sketched in the square. The exterior was magnificent, and I couldn’t wait to see all the art and history inside. Thirty minutes later I finally entered St. Peter’s Basilica in Vatican City.
I was not disappointed. My first thought was that this glorious structure could have only been conceived and built with the help of God. I was so awestruck, I had to sit down in one of the pews.
A baby was being christened at one of the fonts and across a row of pews, a small choir was rehearsing. The Basilica began to fill with music that made the beauty all around me even more overwhelming. The choir sang in Latin, and I didn’t understand a word, but it remains one of the more perfect experiences of my life. It was literally heavenly.
I sat in my pew and listened until they finished, all the while gazing at every detail of the main portico. The altar was such a surprise, so different than anything I had ever seen in the States. Of course, I reminded myself—Michelangelo designed and managed the construction of this stunning structure.
It is no exaggeration to say I felt the presence of God while I was in St. Peter’s. If God can be found in art and music, I was right. The entire time I sat there, I had goosebumps. Eventually, I rose to walk around the free-standing altar. There were easily 200 other visitors and I wasn’t alone, but the enormity of St. Peter’s made their presence slip away while I walked the exquisite marble floors.
I knew when I began my day that I would not have enough time to see all I wanted to see. The Vatican Museum is attached to St. Peter’s and contains history upon history and some of the greatest art in the world, but I could not go there next. From my discussions with Maria, Penny and Karen, I knew I had to leave enough time for the Sistine Chapel.
To get there I had to leave the Vatican hallways, make my way out to the street and walk around the entire city-state of the Vatican. When I reached the entrance to the Chapel I had to wait in line with the rest of the tourists. The line was slow and long, and I worried I wouldn’t get in and began to question my plan.
Once inside the Chapel, so small compared to St. Peter’s, I saw immediately why the girls had insisted that I visit. The Chapel ceiling was breathtaking; Michelangelo’s images were so powerful. I could almost hear Rex Harrison yelling at Charlton Heston in that great movie, The Agony and the Ecstasy, “When will it be finished?!” As I squinted my eyes, I could see the swaying scaffolding and hear the nervous movements of Michelangelo’s assistants working feverishly on the Chapel while Pope Julius II paced below. It was all worth it: however long it took for Michelangelo to finish his masterpiece, it was the perfect amount of time.
As they had when I visited the Acropolis, the guards had to literally escort me out when the Chapel closed. While the sun set, I walked back to the entrance of the Basilica in front of St. Peter’s. I stopped not far away, at a little hole-in-the-wall café, and had pasta and a couple of beers. Almost overcome with emotion after spending the day immersed in beauty and history, I struggled to find the words to describe in poetry all I had experienced.
My day ended with a large pale moon rising behind Vatican Square. I had decided: the next phase of my adventure was about to begin. Tomorrow I would begin to hitchhike by myself through Europe. The teaching English plan? I didn’t see myself as a teacher. It was obvious I would have to leave Europe soon, no matter what, and I wanted to see as much of it as possible before that time came. I was nervous. I was going to be totally on my own, with very limited resources, making my way through foreign lands. Anything could happen, and if it did, I would be on my own. Yes, I was nervous, but I was also ready—I’d gotten my feet wet traveling this first month. I knew there was more waiting for me out there; first Beyond Paris and now Beyond Rome. My first solo destination: the Cannes Film Festival.
As confident as I was in my decision, I still worried constantly about how to get more money. After Cannes, I had no idea what I would do. The recent information I had received about cheap airline tickets home in London might