Of Conga Lines & Forced Marches

Today’s forced march was led by Brother Bernard from Australia. He had clearly put the previous three months to good use as he was extraordinarily knowledgeable about the sites we visited. We took the bus to the Piazza Navona (public transportation in Rome is an extremely convenient, if hair-raising experience) said to be Rome’s most iconic plaza; it was merely a stopping off point for our main objective – the Pantheon. A better temple than church (it was Christianized in the 7th century), the draw is the semi-sphere domed ceiling and oculus (circular opening in the center) built of brick somewhere around 125 AD. I was stunned by the thought of how it was constructed without anything more sophisticated than ropes, pulleys, and wood ramps. The rain pouring through the oculus made for an interesting indoor water fall.

We made our way to the Trevi Fountain where a packed crowd were throwing coins over their shoulders like drunken sailors. Since it took almost 30 years for me to return to Rome after the last time I threw coins (as I recall, I only threw one and not the requisite three - that may explain a lot), I decided fate was as good as chance in a future return to the Eternal City.

Jeff, the principal of Saint Johns in DC and a Jesuit alum, was interested in the nearby church of Saint Ignatius. Its trompe l’oeil ceiling was astonishing. It took several minutes for me to realize that a cherub’s foot was only painted on the ceiling and not actually dangling 100 feet above me. We ended our “march” at the Spanish Steps, which of course, we climbed. By this point, my feet were in open rebellion, as we headed to the subway and back to the Motherhouse.

That evening the “Cilists” threw a welcome party for us in one of the basement rooms of the Motherhouse. We were greeted with the request to wear a Mardi Gras mask (I didn’t) and a colored square piece of paper with a name on it. The goal was to “discover” the other person by matching the colored square and name. I managed to look busy as the chaos ensued and was relieved when the exercise ended. I scored a beer (warm) and one of the chairs that lined the walls of the room (the center was left open – I presume – for the dancing that was sure to follow). Tim Tarmey found his way to the chair next to me where we proceeded to catch up after 20 years. This idyll was ended when, in a burst of enthusiasm, one of the Spanish participants threw confetti in my face and dragged me to the dance floor where a rather unsuccessful Conga line was attempting to snake its way around the room. As soon as the Spaniard turned her back to join the Conga line, I bolted for the exit and the quiet of my room.