Living & Arts

Gelato and Easter Mass in Rome

In print | April 16, 2009

When I last left you, dear Swattie, I was living on $6 a day in East and Central Europe and keeping warm by effectively growing a layer of extra flesh thanks to pierogie abuse. This quickly ended when I hit Italy and went back to the euro, at which point my wallet began weeping money profusely as I emptied it happily at a distressingly high number of gelaterías.

In Rome, my gelato gluttony reached new humiliating heights, all aided by the justification that I was sampling (read: devastating) local cuisine. The worst was when my friend Quing and I each bought a towering gelato cone and then walked down the street only to spy another gelatería. This prompted Quing to shove her cone in her mouth as she rushed to the counter while yelling at me, “Hurry up and eat! The line is getting longer!” (Tip: The key to discerning a gelatería’s quality is the banana gelato. It must be white and slightly grey, not a bright yellow, the telltale sign it came from a mix.)

The pizza and pasta there are, as expected, absolutely amazing. The pizza is typically thin-crust and piled high with prosciutto, shellfish, tuna, grilled veggies (vitamins!) or just incredibly fresh ricotta and mozzarella. I usually spent most of my few minutes of Internet each week looking up the Sharples menu and cackling gleefully to myself gleefully at all the Double Indian bars I’ve escaped (Also, I would appreciate if someone could please enlighten me on what exactly “chicken pumpkin” is).
Contrary to popular belief, I actually did more than just eat in Italy. For any history buffs, walking along the Roman forums or climbing the Colosseum steps and seeing the centuries’ worth of graffiti carved along the walls is incomparable. What never ceases to amaze me about Europe (and this is never more pronounced than when viewing Caesar’s tomb or walking down to the catacombs) is how differently Europeans view time. With the United States being such a young nation, our conception of our own history and culture is staggeringly different. At the Vatican museum, I was bemused to see an 8,000 year-old maternity figure shoved in the corner rather casually.

For art aficionados, Rome overwhelms the senses with the art found in the Vatican and the Borghese Gallery. Even with my familiarity with the frescoes in the Sistine Chapel or the Pietá in the Basilica due to commercialization, I was left slack-jawed when I saw the details of that famous pair of hands meeting. Yet what really and has always defined Rome has been its spirituality. Regardless of your faith, it’s necessary to view Rome’s Catholicism firsthand to gain a comprehensive experience of a culture in which 90% are Catholic. Never one to go halfway, I decided to do just that by attending Easter mass with the Pope. The experience was humbling. I managed to snag a fairly front-row view among the hundred thousand people there, meaning I could just make out a rather adorable little white blob moving around near the altar. The excitement in the air was palpable and some lively Croatians led several rousing if inexplicably off-beat chants of “Viva il Popo!”

Whatever you think of Catholicism, you have to be impressed by the faith that was clearly present in the throng gathered that day in front of St. Peter’s Basilica. I was surrounded by people from all over the world, waving each respective flag and there was a constant din of languages unless the Pope was speaking. Even though I’m not Catholic, I thoroughly enjoyed the mass and was pleased to find out I could understand most of the homily the Pope delivered in Italian thanks to the linguistic similarities to Spanish. I was unfamiliar with most of the formal practices but my friend Patty helpfully poked me in the ribs every time I needed to stand up and look solemn. If it weren’t for the fact that the two Diet Cokes I downed in the morning came back with a vengeance halfway through the mass, I would have nothing but fond memories. As it were, I had to gingerly ease myself up to and down from a standing position in fear of angering my bladder.

My favorite part of the Mass was the rite of peace (pax) during the Communion rite. After the Pope wished the people the peace of Christ, he then invited us to offer each other the sign of peace, which varied from a hug or a handshake. Sounds cheesy, but it was heartening to see people from so many diverse cultures embracing each other. The German woman next to me was so exuberant that she smushed my face into her bosom in what I believe was a well-intentioned headlock.

Despite the immense crowd of 100,000 and the unpleasantry that could have arisen, the atmosphere was one of good will, although I did catch some girls behind me remarking on my jeans at Easter Mass. I was about to turn around and indignantly snap back that I had been backpacking for two weeks until I caught sight of the long trail of toothpaste streaking down my shirt. Oops.
And so it was with several blurry photos of a Pope-shaped white speck, a belly lined with gnocchi and 18 days’ worth of really, really stanky clothes that I made my triumphant return to my beloved Madrid.

Tiffany is a junior. You can reach her at tliao1@swarthmore.edu.