Piazza San Pietro


He was late, very late, but an outsider would not be able to tell from his cool gaze and languid pace. He took the steps one at a time, taking slow and measured steps. Though St. Peter’s Basilica stood proudly to his back, he ignored it with the ease of a man who had seen the sight many, many times. After all, the young man worked there. Or, at least, he was trying to! 
Pope Francis had put out an advertisement in the local paper, Il Papa Giorni, for an intern, and he had jumped on the chance to work in Vatican City. As a boy, that had been his only dream; to one day take a bullet for the Papa. He’d gone through rigorous training, along with 7 other potential recruits, the course specially designed by the Stealth Division of the Swiss Guard for optimal Papal Protection. It had been a grueling 5 weeks.
The young man stepped delicately over the tiny chain blocking the staircase from curious tourists and stood in the crowd, surveying. He carefully straightened his starched collar and adjusted his tie; it was the one his mother had given him for his first interview, dark blue with tiny golden keys. Very fitting. His name tag glinted in the sun, and he flipped it to make it more visible. It wouldn’t do to be caught by security while canvasing for the Father of the Catholic Church himself. He checked his watch and cursed, careful to avoid the mortal sin of Blasphemy while doing so. He was supposed to meet his supervisor by the obelisk by noon, and he only had a few minutes left to cross the busy piazza. 
His fingers tightened around the plastic water bottle in his hand. Just a few more days, and hopefully he’d finally get a paid position. A tourist slammed into his side, immediately issuing profuse apologies in rapid German. He waved her off, and slid his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. Tourists. Always making his job harder. With a glance and a half hearted kick towards the pigeon puttering about at his feet, he strode off, into the rising heat of the hazy sun. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Aventine Hill

Up on the Aventine, there are less voices to be heard in this gentle wind-swept place. Yet, it is not silent. Here, next to Santa Sabina and among the orange trees I sit, dampness from the wooden bench I’m perched on seeping slowly into my clothes. The rain has passed, and the birds resume their cheerful tittering in the warm rays of the sun. I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the flapping of wings moved by the gentle breeze whispering across my bare arms. The birds themselves express their personality though sound. From the deep, harsh caw of the Hooded Crow, the almost human outbursts from the gulls, to the reedy singing from various songbirds, the high pines are alive with a symphony that any garden would be proud to house.   Water droplets fall from the canopy, a left over from the morning’s stormy weather. I have to cover my paper so that the water does not bend and warp the fibers into something soft and malleable. A burst of wind shakes free another sun shower,
Read more

Piazza Cavour

It was almost time. The young man swung his jacket back and forth as he bounced on his toes in anticipation. The older man beside him looked on silently, his face unreadable. The young man had been under his training for some time now, and it was almost time for him to finally enact his plans. The older man slowly evaluated the boy’s movements, every so often interrupting him to correct his form or fix his posture.   From the shade of the tall palm trees the boy craned his neck to stare up the back of Camillo Cavour. This was partly his fault, after all. Next to the boy, seated on the curb was a fellow soldier, with a bright yellow Three on the sleeve of his polo. Number two couldn’t make it today, so there were only two brave soldiers going through their preparations. Today was the day; the two boys were going to mount an assault of the Palazzo de Giustizia to return Rome to Papal control.   This was the way that Italy was meant to be; at least thats what their father
Read more

Keats Shelley Memorial House

It was pleasantly warm when Emma and I set off on a brisk walk from St. John’s on our way to the Keats Shelley Memorial House. The two of us were excited, as both of us have a love for the work of both John Keats and Percy Shelley. I myself had a particular interest in seeing the small rooms where Keats stayed during his time in the Eternal City as I had learned more about him and Shelley for my site report on the Non-Catholic Cemetery, where both men are buried.   The Piazza de Spagna was bustling with noisy tourists and street vendors, the most memorable of which was a man pretending to play the violin for a crowd of hoodwinked onlookers. The museum itself wasn’t hard to find; the sign was large and red, clearly displaying the names of the two poets right on the corner next to the steps. We pushed our way through the crowd, past the fountain, and made our way to the heavy wooden doors of the museum. I stopped to check the time: 5 o’clock, one hour before the museum close
Read more