The night after our sewer adventure, I went out to dinner with a couple of people from our hostel. When we came back, I found Steve completely despondent, and minus about 3/4 of the bottle of whiskey I had left him with. “I don´t think we did it,” he told me. “I don’t think we made it to the Cloaca.”
We had a limited amount of time for our trip, and I wasn’t about to go breaking back in to the sewers in search of something we may or may not have found. There was another option though: pay 500 Euros (about 650 dollars) to go officially with the Rome Underground society the next day.
Now, while I generally find official tours restrictive and frustrating, I am not above doing it the official way if the risk/reward ratio is sufficiently in its favor. For instance, while I would have much preferred being able to freely wander the Colosseum by myself, instead of trying to hop the fence in the middle of the night I queued up, paid the entrance fee, and stuck to the beaten path.
However, paying 650 bucks to go into a sewer is ridiculous. But this was the culture of Rome. Most of the interesting underground stuff is part of well guarded archeological sites, and the exploration groups are more on the academic side, heavily cooperative with the authorities, and generally enjoy official access, as opposed to the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy that´s prevelent in Australia and Paris, and the “pray you don´t get caught” attitude that exists today in New York. Naples was much the same way as Rome, except the combination of less tourists, less archeological interest, and a generally cooler crew led to “sure, we’d love to show you the underground of our city - let’s all go see what we can find” rather than “pay us an exhorbitant amount of money and you can tag along on a tour.”
Still, Steve was considering it. Finding the Cloaca was a big reason he had come all the way to Rome, and he was apoplectic over the fact that he might leave without seeing it. Fortunately, I had just the solution for his malaise. During my visit to the four patriarchal basilicas, I had noticed something pretty interesting. Next to St. John Lateran, there was a giant obelisk surrounded by scaffolding. It looked pretty easy to head in and up. For the urban adventurer, a good drunken climb can work wonders for the psyche. Plus, as a rebellious lapsed Catholic, I knew Steve couldn’t turn down the chance to do some extralegal adventuring in Vatican territory - and right next to the seat of the Pope nonetheless.
Surprisingly, one of the hostel folks I had dinner with, a random cute Aussie girl, decided to come along. Not to climb, just to walk she said - but I already knew she was heading up top with us. I recognized her mental state immediately, because I had experienced it several times myself - it’s always the process when dealing with appealing things outside of your comfort zone. The logical part of herself said that it was a ridiculous idea to climb up scaffolding in the middle of the night with two random drunk Americans, and proceeded to come up with all the reasons not to do it. But some spark had been lit, and it was our job to fan that spark into a flame - a flame strong enough to overcome the mental reservations. Certain things help with this. Booze being not the least of them, but another big one is other confident people around. Ultimately, I knew that if we made the situation comfortable enough for her, provided a steady presence, and maybe gave her a gentle push when the time was right, she would listen to her gut and go with the flow. The three of us swigged the last of Steve’s whiskey from the bottle and headed southeast to St. John’s.
The climb was easy as cake. I went up the scaffolding ladders with the Aussie, while Steve worked out his issues by doing a Spider-Man up the side. The scaffolding covered the whole obelisk, and we used the cross at the top of it to boost ourselves up to the final crossbeams. We had chosen a great climb. Unbeknownst to us, in the late 16th century the city of Rome had actually been designed to give us a spectacular view.
Rome, like most European cities, is a jumbled mishmash of streets and alleyways that have evolved organically over time. There are a few exceptions to this rule however - for instance, in 1936 when Mussolini started to build a grand Boulevard called the Via della Conciliazione from the Tiber River to St. Peter´s Basilica. Another exception occurred 350 years earlier, when Pope Sixtus V decided that all roads shouldn´t just lead to Rome - they should also lead to the seat of the Pope. Sixtus cleared out radial boulevards from St. John Lateran to link it with the other major basilicas. As a result we had great, unobstructed views right down the main roads of Rome. The Colosseum was right down one street, with St. Peter´s off in the distance behind it. St. Mary Maggiore was down another. We could also make out the dome of the Pantheon, and of course, the magnificent roof of Mother Church of all Christendom right next to us.
The night was fairly misty, and Rome is not heavily lit up at night like Paris or New York. Even if Steve had brought his $6000 camera, any decent shots were out of the question. The Aussie did her best with her regular point-and-shoot digital, mostly of the carvings on the obelisk, but I was perfectly content with nothing. A good climb, a great view, an epic city, I didn´t need anything else. Photography is great, but often times it can be a distraction from the experience itself.
Sitting back in the hostel, winding down from our impromptu adventure, I noticed a change in both of my compatriots. Steve was no longer so despondent - while not completely mitigating his frustration, the climb had taken the edge off enough to let him leave the city in peace, Cloaca or no. And the flame that had been lit in the Aussie was there to stay. I felt kind of proud - I had helped create a fellow urban adventurer.
There was also another reason to celebrate. After a little research, it turned out that we hadn’t just climbed some random thing covered in scaffolding. The Lateran Obelisk is the oldest in Rome and tallest in the entire world - the Egyptians constructed the 105 foot (32 meter) obelisk in Luxor approximately 3500 years ago. It was brought to Rome by Constantius II in the 4th century, and erected at the Circus Maximus. After having fallen sometime during the middle ages, our old buddy Sixtus V (Best Pope Ever!) had it re-erected next to St. John Lateran, adding the cross on top that we had used to boost ourselves up in order to de-paganize it.
Setting a goal and pushing yourself to achieve it is always rewarding, even if you ultimately fail or (as in the case of the Cloaca) don’t know if you succeeded or not. Rewarding in a very different way is learning you’ve accomplished something cool you hadn’t even meant to, just by seizing a random opportunity. I had helped one friend feel better, I had helped another unlock a part of herself, and I had seen a magnificent view of the Eternal City afforded only to the scant few - such as us - that choose to find it. I could leave Rome the next day with no regrets.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment