Day 4. Part 2
Tour to Vatican City begins as usual in a hurried bit of excitement. And naturally, we are greeted upon arrival with a rainstorm. I'm sensing a theme here.
The line to get in (without tickets) is wrapped around the building and down the block. It's a most impressive sight.
We trek to find our tour guide and group. I am dodging and weaving pedestrians who have either stopped to check a map or those seeking shelter under awnings. By sheer luck I navigate our path through the rain soaked street and find our meeting point. Somehow my horrible sense of direction becomes a newfound internal compass. Either that or my gut instincts are to be trusted here.
The rain turns into a downpour. I am regretting the fact I packed the rain ponchos and 2 umbrellas. Naomi actually kept hers in her purse. I buy three umbrellas from the street peddlers. 15 euros. Not bad but it still pisses me off.
Our tour guide leads us through security and the room is filled with people trying to get tickets, other tour groups, and those with problems with something or other.
The tour commences and nothing could have prepared me for thirst of knowledge I possessed.
Perhaps it's the enthusiasm our guide exhibits. Perhaps it's just a love of art or love of my religion. Whatever it is I am in awe of the history lesson presented. It brings a fresh perspective of the work that Michaelangelo did and the years and years of dedication to his calling and craft.
We walk through rooms and rooms and hallways with delicately detailed paintings, marble statues, and frescoes. It is beyond impressive and my heart swells with pride to see Naomi at the head of the group, eagerly listening to our guide.
I fall behind several times. I want to soak it all in, swim in it until my body is pruney. I have, like on all the other tours, a small child strapped to my back but this time she is starting to fuss. She is exhausted, hungry, and more than likely tired of "walking" another tour.
In order to distract her we take selfies and I promise her that we are going to church. This seems to quiet her down. She loves going to church. She would go every day if I drove her. Even as we play pass the baby my family has caught on to this and they also try to appease her sensitivities with the idea of going to church at the end of this personal ordeal. It would be simply adorable if I wasn't so irritated.
This was my moment. This is what I wanted for most of my life and this small child is trying my patience by being, well, a child.
I look over at Marc during several points of the tour and I see how engaged he is, how utterly impressed he is by all that is in front of him. I think, and this comes as a shock, he had no idea what he was going to feel, had no preconceived notion of the majestic sights that he would see. And in one moment I stop getting irritated because I know this is his trip too. And though I grew up with the Vatican having a special place in my heart, he did not. I suppose it's as though he tasted the finest wine or eaten the best prepared food that he thought he wouldn't like. Whatever the case I know he is in this moment with me.
Walking in the Sistine chapel felt being hit in the gut with an overwhelming amount of love behind the punch. I could feel my throat tighten and my chest wall opened as though I could expand it to the fullest, hoping to fill every void in my life. I fight the tears and Brendan immediately takes my hand. He guides me to the center of the room and I hear the guard say, "Please do not stop on the steps. Follow your way down and make room for the people behind you."
I think he is talking to me until I look around and realize I'm not the only one who had the same reaction.
There we stand. Alora on my back, Brendan beside me, Naomi on his right. We are frozen and time stands still. I feel rather than see Marc and turn to meet his eyes. He is taken aback and I literally want to cry. He asks if I'm ok. I mumble my reply and shake my head. No, of course I'm not ok, but at the same time I am.
Being the practical one, he understands the grueling effects these past few days have taken on the little two. He has more patience with them and after the first ten minutes in the chapel he takes them both to give me some time.
It's just me with the older two. We stand there just staring, mouths agape and filled with wonderment. Naomi breaks the silence by pointing out little details and scenes that call to her. I feel the muscles in my neck tighten and ache. Four years of this position every day by candlelight, I would have stabbed somebody. Michaelangelo becomes my hero.
Lights whiz by and the guards start yelling. People are taking photos and videos. Brendan and I are disgusted and angered by this. I admit I was also a little jealous by their brazen activities. I know if I got caught I would get my phone confiscated, fined, and probably thrown in prison. Why?! Because that's my luck. Brendan is appalled and considers it stealing. Stealing a piece of history? Stealing photos of precious artwork? Stealing what, I don't know. All I know is my 15 year old son has better morals and values than these people. Then again, it's Brendan. I'm sure if Naomi thought she'd get away with it, she would. And I raised them the same. Go figure.
I wind my way through the crowd and find Marc with the children. I take Alora and make my way out to find a gift shop. I saved for months for this trip and I want to bring a little piece of it back. I remember my mother would always buy us little trinkets at the end of a vacation. Though we didn't have much money she always knew how to make the memory last by buying the right gift.
I select my purchases and head back. Alora is squawking in my ear about going back to church. I tell her we're going to church and she calms down. Funny little baby.
We hand over our headsets to the guide and explain that we have to leave. He is worried we won't get to see inside the basilica. I tell him we went to mass on Sunday and a look of relief washes over his face. Cute little Brit.
Carved on the side of the building is a little souvenir shop. It is filled with nuns behind the register and I hear them all speaking in Spanish. It is oddly refreshing. Brendan starts picking out crosses and a crucifix and who knows what else. I look to see what I can find and I'm glad I saved money for this for months. I am being drawn to items that I know will have special meaning to some friends and family. I know Marc is worried about making the flight to London so I hurry through my selections and we bustle out onto St. Peter's Square for the last time.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle. Naomi and Aidan start singing Singing In the Rain. I take one last look around and feel at peace.
I may return again. I may not. What I do know is that I will never again be able to replicate this time spent with my children. It is truly a glorifying feeling.
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