The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part V (Rome)

After the mess of things in and coming out of Florence, it would be a new day in Rome from Civitavecchia. We took a train (that was awfully reminiscent of the Hogwarts Express) into Rome and set for the smallest sovereignty in the world, Vatican City. My second time (first time about six years ago), Mike's first.

We were approaching the square when an Iranian man stopped us to enlighten us with a "good deal" for getting into the Vatican.

"Look at the line--it takes two hours to get into the Vatican. For 45 euros a person, I can get you in in five minutes. All you have to do is pay the office," he told us. 

"Where's the office?" Mike and I asked.

He pointed one way and we told him we would look for it on our own. As tourists, at that moment we didn't feel like trusting anyone. So into the round "square" we went.

But we didn't get too far. Our egos were defeated by the mystery "office"--wherever it was--and with about five hours to see everything we wanted to see in Rome, Mike and I decided to go back to the man.

Within about ten minutes we ended up at this remote building, where we paid the 90 euros, put on round stickers about half the size of a dime (to show we were part of a tour), and then joined a group of clueless tourists out front.

"Your tour will start at 11:15," the Iranian man told us. It was 11:00.

He left and we waited. 11:20 came around and out appeared a tall obese man with a cane and sun hat. Sweating lard, he looked on the brink of cardiac arrest.

And that's why it didn't, after all, take five minutes to get into the Vatican's back entrance. In fact, it took about half the time it would normally take to get in. After following Jabba the Hut, he handed us off to two men who--for Pete's sake (See what I did there? We were at St. Peter's Basilica. Har har...)--couldn't figure out the ticket situation. Back and forth we were led in the ticketing room, and Mike and I were about to call it quits, call the bank for a refund, and head to the Colosseum. Again, we were on the clock.

But then Jabba signaled us toward the security line, where we finally got the paper. A ticket rip and audio tour guide later, we were finally on our way. It was, like, 12:30/12:45.

"Meet me at the top of the stairs; I'm going to take the elevator," Jabba said.

I saw a sign reading "Cappella Sistina -->" and said to Mike, "Hey, let's just get outa here and head that way." So we ditched the tour and eventually found ourselves in the Hall of Emperors, on the way to La Cappella Sistina.

Mike got a kick out of this part. Schooled in Greek and Roman mythology, he identified many emperors and gods without referring to their labels. He did this and photographed the statues while I asked around for La Cappella Sistina.

"Bippity boppity...bippity boppity..." A security guard instructed me in Italian, moving his hand every which way.

When we were done with the Hall, we found that the line did exactly that. My memory from six years ago could not recall such a monster.

"It's hard to believe that a cult put this all together," said Mike as I dragged him through the ridiculousness. It seemed we were being herded to Slovenia. The only indication that we were close was a sign in a narrow hallway tsk-tsking me for wearing inappropriate attire. Thankfully, because of the same mishap in Pisa Mike kept my jeans and his jacket in his backpack. I tied the jacket around my waist and wrapped the jeans around my shoulders. Yeah, I got stares, but I was radiating American individualism badassness.

A million years later, we met the entrance of La Cappella Sistina.


To be continued...