Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Exit

The inscription Venite Adoremvs means, “Come let us adore him.” I will look it up when home. Carved on an unadorned podium in a classroom whose silence perhaps was last broken by Latin words, the inscription focused the room of dark wood desks and tables where one child-sized chair stood alone in a niche up front. The stillness of the room made it eerie. Unless filled with corpses, Roman places are not this darkly quiet.

The climb up the hill was full of faces. Hundreds loud, seated in the sun. The signs at the top that scolded English-readers not to yell, sing, or make ruckus went obviously unnoticed. Ruckus ran amuck down the ellipses of stairs, through the central terraces, and around the fountain none will ever hear. How odd a path, like an eight with an extra bulge, winding, but obvious – all ways lead up.

Followed a priest to find the classroom. While sitting in the nave saw peripheral movement, a robed person walking through walls. Only the curious find the ambulatory. It’s nothing more than an afterthought. Low, narrow arches cut a path through the side chapels into the unknown behind the high altar. Beyond the classroom is a hall: rectangular, cool, and gray. Full of the sunbeams longed for by charcoal renders, they make clean shapes on the tile floor. On tiptoe, the road comes through the window, but its sound and nearness has been blocked out. Not a soul stirs within the shadowed maze.

Counted nine couples mid-kiss from the third terrace. Dark-haired heads plastered together for all the world to see. More people sit than walk on the stair, I stand in the happy medium, map unfolded on the marble railing trying to align its cardinal points with the Roman sun. Finding the steps was not difficult. Follow the bump and shove down the Corso to the swarm on risers.

I had given up and asked. First two women in a museum, than a street vendor, and finally a doorman. “Dove Santa Maria della Concezione?” I butchered Con chez e on a. The scribbled name on my piece of notebook paper did little to clear confusion. Only the doorman knew. Sempre dritto and something about a third left. Walked blind down a grey street of narrow sidewalks until I realized the blackness was familiar. Back to the bones, but thankfully climbed all the stairs this time. Reached wooden door with posted hours. Cheiso followed by sei e mezzo.

The stairs never quiet. After the robbed priest turned out the church with a slowly waving hand, I walked back through the noise of cars to find the activity I left to explore darken corridors unchanged. In closeness reminiscent of Notte Bianca I descend, leaving both church and stair behind as I head for home.

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