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The Pantheon |
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written
by justinvf / 10.24.2005 |
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Part 1: |
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| personal photo |
| Patheon |
| The swaying altar cloth. |
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Three flannel-shirted Italians lay their full weight into the massive bronze doors, which slowly oblige and open. The daily ritual still slightly impresses them despite its countless reenactments, and with it completed the three stroll over to Taza d’Oro. Before they have even left the portico, I walk towards the door. They glance at me briefly as I enter, to give them some conversation fodder later on. They like making up stories over espresso, relishing in stereotypes, about the first ones to enter on a day. Yesterday it was the Columbian princess, fleeing to the Pantheon to seek forgiveness after killing her drug lord father. Today it is the greedy American, rich from birth and going on an Absinthe tour of Europe after he got bored with college and horse jumping.
I was a bit bored though, truthfully. Italy was a cure, refreshment by detachment from decisions that mattered. Today’s decision was whether 8 was too early to get up to see the Pantheon before anyone else. Last week’s was whether I should run away to Venice. Both were settled by impulse, and here I was crossing the threshold with my gaze on the lip of the oculus. Staring at a spot and walking forward I soon find my neck stiff, looking strait up at the sky. Overcast but still fresh, the room is outside of itself. I am a bit outside of myself as my gaze shifts downwards to the altar. Moved by some phantom breeze I can’t feel, the ends of the altar cloth are blown diagonally in the breeze. Its somewhat mystical and I stand entranced for a moment, until I perceive that a few more have entered the room. The trance broken I walk towards the niches, visit the standard tomb, and turn to go.
The rain has started to fall, and I’ve ducked into a book store. It gets heavier, and after a few minutes of fake shopping it looks like I should just do it. I step out under the pelting blobs of water and might as well run. With each stride a splash, I dash down the center of the road. People look from under the awnings, streams of water separating us and obscuring their pointed fingers. More splashes, I’m soaked, and soon arrive. Masses crowd inside the Pantheon and I side step up to the little barrier so that there is no one between me and the altar. Large drops flicker in the flashes before they slap tile and flow out through the floor. At the edge of the barrier I stand centrally before the column of water. Before me again the altar cloth blows, more violently now. I feel the breeze on my wet skin and take in the experience, vision locked on this trembling fabric. Satisfied, I return to the rain and walk homeward, soaked as I wave off the umbrella peddlers.
I stop in to say goodbye to the building, hands somewhat sticky from a recent gelato. The sky has cleared and oculus now makes a crisp circle that moves back up the inner dome, towards the portal it came in this morning. Below, the crowd is less dense than the huddled mass this afternoon, with only damp patches of marble recalling the torrent of the afternoon. Stomach filled with syrup and panna, any sense of urgency has left me. I sit amongst the sparsely standing tourists and close my eyes for a moment. Chatter, shoes, a horse in the distance… motion and companionship. It’s all peacefully absorbed until a loud clapping sound opens my eyes. A nun with two wooden blocks is trying to get attention and motion us out for closing time. I slowly get up and mosey out with the last of the crowd. Shockingly, as I walk out I see three middle aged gentlemen entering. They didn’t seem to recognize me.
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