I remember reading that Wilfred Thesiger, the explorer of Saudi Arabia's empty quarter, the trackless desert where oil was discovered years later, walked so much the arches of his feet had to be rebuilt. I don't know, relative to Thesiger, what the condition of my feet and legs are after almost a week walking everywhere in Rome, but I would say they have been pushed to the limit of their capacities. Today, having visited all three of the non-Vatican papal basilicas plus San Sebastiano Fuori Le Muri, my pilgrimage is almost over. Tomorrow I have a 3:00 p.m. ticket to the Vatican Museums and will stop at Saint Peter's, a fitting end to my travels in Rome.
I only realize in retrospect how ambitious my plan was: San Paolo Fuori Le Muri is outside Rome, near the autostrada. Notwithstanding, coming upon the basilica and its enormous plaza, I'm struck by the monumentality of the papal basilicas: no church in New York, Paris or London I've seen compare in size --no church I've seen anywhere does. I also realize that you don't have to go to Ravenna to see beautiful mosaics: Rome's churches are full of them.
From San Paolo I take the Metro to Circo Massimo, the nearest stop to San Sebastiano Fuori le Muri, my next stop. I want to go here because it was one of the "seven pilgrim churches of Rome" until John Paul II conferred the distinction on the Chiesa del Divino Amore down the road on the Appian Way.
"Yes, I said 'the Appian Way'". The ancient way is still traveled, although I had no idea how far it was from the Circo Massimo. I ask for directions near the Aventine road (via Aventina), and again, as everywhere I have gone in Rome, the native indicates it is a long way off. By this time I know that if the natives say it's a long way off, it's a long way off. I walk along the road towards the Appian Way and spy a bus stop heading in the same direction. Looking at the list of stops, I see that one of them is San Sebastiano. I wait about twenty minutes, chatting with an older Italian woman who tells me about which churches in the area are open and which are rarely open and I pass the time until the bus arrives.
It turns out that Via Appia is much further than I would be able to walk, much further. The bus takes us through the countryside and onto the road, whose square tiles make the bus bounce and vibrate. As I look out the window I see one religious shrine after another: Divino Amore (which has a neon sign, unlit); San Calixto, known for its catacombs, and finally, San Sebastiano.
Most people go to San Sebastiano to visit the catacombs, but there is another reason: it is the home of the last of Bernini's great works of sculpture, the larger-than-life bust of Christ known as Salvator Mundi. It is worth seeing.
There are mosaics on a frieze above the entrance columns and inside, the church is equally splendid, although smaller than the basilicas. I am heading for the catacombs and see that a tour in English is about to begin. At 8 Euros for 30 minutes it's pricey, but in H.V. Morton's A Traveler In Rome I've read of the catacombs discovered here by a Irish priest in the 19th century. Also I've read that many pilgrims still visit San Sebastiano, even if in Jubilee years they have to visit Divino Amore as well to get their indulgence.
The tour is led by an erudite man, blonde and tall with an accent I think might be Polish, but turns out to be Lithuanian. He knows Greek and Latin and he knows lots about the catacombs and the early Christian church. I learn that bodies were buried and quicklime put into the tombs to kill all infections. Quicklime slaked with water dries out the tissues (which stink on decomposition), and made the cemeteries relatively safe from the perspective of public health (I wonder when sanitation increased to the point where a body could be buried without having to resort to quicklime?) During the years of Christian persecution, believers met in the catacombs to say Mass, as being ceremonies associated with the dead (broadly speaking), the rite was permitted under Roman law. Romans were usually cremated, although if someone converted, their remains could be placed in a columbarium, a repository for ashes.
The tour involves descending into the cool depths of the church's foundations and being guided through a maze of tunnels. Drops of moisture cling to the walls and it is cool enough that I am glad I have a shirt over my shoulders. An elderly man and equally elderly, but more frail woman are on the tour, which is a physical test for the woman, whose back is curved with age. Nevertheless, she goes everywhere everyone else does on the tour, and I admire her fortitude, although the strength with which she grips my hand as I help her husband to help her down the stairs suggests she is not going to give up the ghost any time soon. They are Dutch, and accompanied by a clergyman who seems decidedly Calvinist.
The guide on the catacombs tour tells me that if I want to go to Saint John in the Lateran, I should walk through the arch towards the catacombs of San Calixto and catch the #218 bus back to the city. I just make a passing bus and in seconds, am bounding along the Appian Way, back to Rome. The giant statues of the Lateran look on from their perch at the opposite end of the plaza from where the bus stops, and I know I have arrived at the second of the papal basilicas.
Saint John Lateran is overwhelming, giant statues of the apostles in equally large niches lining the sides of the basilica. Again, the gilding and mosaic work are spectacular.
From the Lateran I have one more basilica to visit, Santa Maria Maggiore at the end of Via Merulana. I walk the whole way. I have already seen the basilica, but I was so struck the last time I saw it, I want to see it again. Also, I now know that Bernini was buried there, and I want to see the stone over his grave. I am confirmed in my appreciation of this embracing structure. I walk around its chapels searching fruitlessly for Benini's tombstone. Spying two sets of tourists photographing in a chapel near where I'm told the stone should be, in a chapel where only prayer is permitted and photographs are specifically not permitted, I lose my temper. I upbraid the tourists, one Chinese, the other an older German couple in a loud voice. I can't help myself: it seems disrespectful. The lyrics to Noel Coward's Why Do The Wrong People Travel? come to mind. With the help of a kindly guard, I find Bernini's inconspicuous tombstone to the right of the altar
My pilgrimage is complete, now I have to get to my lodgings. By this point --it is 2:45 p.m. in the afternoon-- my legs and feet will do nothing more for me. I walk over to a bus stop for the #75 bus and see that it will practically take me to my door, the Dandolo-Casini stop. Overjoyed, I settle in for a long wait. After 30 minutes of this, I ask the driver of another bus whether the #75 bus stops there. He tell me it doesn't, the sign notwithstanding, and takes me to the right bus stop. I wait another 15 minutes, but the bus arrives and I am chauffeured back to my apartment.
Fortunately, in the refrigerator I have a number of tasty items I bought at Volpetti on via Marmorata last Friday, as well as a large Peroni beer. They are the manifest reward for my efforts, but I also feel a great personal satisfaction for having cast my net in Rome so widely.
One more day to go.
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