La Vita Bella The Good Life (And Death)  Katharine Cerezo   © Copyright 2004 by Katharine Cerezo

I thought I knew Rome intimately, having spent four years there, and yet the city never failed to yank me out of my complacency with a snide taunt; You never knew me at all.

I loved Rome, with all her seeming paradoxes, the way the Eternal City seamlessly melded ancient and new, luxury and decay, life and death. I loved the way the gypsies timed each mass so that they could position themselves at the church steps with the requisite baby clutched in their arms. I loved how the pope could be giving his Sunday benediction at St. Peter’s and Italians sitting not four hundred meters away would tune in to Radio Maria and listen to Mass via that circuit. I loved the blatant irreverence the little motorinos had as they buzzed past the Coliseum without so much as a backward glance. I marveled at Circo Massimo, the famed track of Ben Hur, now nothing more than a dusty grass field where Romans took their dogs for exercise. The masterpieces of genius fused with mediocre drawings and portraits from street artists trying to attract tourists with a “Ciao, bella, good price for you.”

Visitors, pointing at their free McDonald’s tourist maps, would stop me and ask what they should see during their three day stay. Each time I would suppress the urge to respond, Do you see the bright yellow and red McDonald’s markers dotting the map? Hit every McDonald’s on there and you’ll have found the Pantheon, the Mouth of Truth, the Spanish Steps, the Roman Forum, and the Coliseum. Not that I had anything against McDonalds; the maps were excellent. There was just no way to tell these visitors that while Rome proudly displays many of her treasures, some treasures she keeps equally hidden.

Most tourists cite St. Peter’s Basilica of all the Roman haunts as having the most profound effect on them. St. Peter’s is indeed astounding, not only because of its rich legacy and history, but in its sheer vastness. It was designed to overwhelm. I would take visiting friends inside where they would marvel at the ornate ceiling, the famed stained-glass window, Michelangelo’s Pieta, and rub St. Peter’s bronzed foot for luck. When informed that the view from the top of St. Peter’s was well worth the climb they would exchange looks and say incredulously, “You can climb?” They’d gasp as they ascended the narrow, curved steps of the circular dome in moist August heat and stumble as they were startled by deafening bell peals. It was here, from the top of St. Peter’s, looking at the tiny specks of pilgrims below hailing from every nation and religion, that they proclaimed their life-affirming moment.

My own moment came not from the dome of St. Peter’s, but from an obscure building nestled between the Forum Travel Agency and the Ministry of Industry and Commerce. I unwittingly passed its unimpressive exterior countless times as a high school freshman en route to the American Embassy to pick up mail. When my Western Civilization teacher first described the Cappuchin crypt and where it was located I was askance, refraining from a dubious, “Are you sure?”

The Cappuchin crypt contains the remains of more than 4000 Cappuchin monks that died between 1500-1870. The remains were later exhumed and relocated to this new resting place on 27 Via Veneto. This in itself was not unusual; many churches considered it an honor to have relics of venerated persons in the form of a bone or a lock of hair. What made this particular chapel unique is the audacious manner in which the bones are displayed. I went to the Cappuchin crypt shortly after learning of its location, my teenage brain curious to know what morbid, twisted and perverted mind could look at a pelvis and think that it would be perfect as the petal of a flower arrangement. I wondered whether the monks had an idea that following their demise their limbs would be compiled in neat stacks or that their finger joints detached to form little curlicues on a ceiling.

The easiest way for me to get there was to ride the Metro to Piazza Barberini and walk the short block or so up Via Veneto. About thirty percent of the time there was an old man at the Barberini fountain, waving a wand like a conductor’s stick at passing traffic. My friends and I debated as to whether he was mentally crazed or if he was feigning eccentricity. This leathery old man achieved a certain degree of fame and years later while browsing a stand I’d see his image on a postcard. He was there the day I went and as always I was fascinated, mesmerized by the precise, neat jerks of hand.

The day of my visit there was an eclectic group of Japanese, Italians, Germans, and Americans patiently awaiting entrance outside the heavy chapel doors. A monk wearing the traditional brown hooded garment appeared at the door and allowed us inside, greeting each in his or her native tongue while gently tapping on the donation basket. I blinked as my eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the cellar-like darkness of the crypt. Muted light was provided via windows and exotic lamps. It took me a moment to appreciate precisely how exotic the lamps were.

I was surrounded by bones. Not realizing that I was holding my breath I exhaled, wondering if the inhale would bring with it the smell of decay. It was a ridiculous thought; there was no particular odor attached. Before me, resting on beds of neatly stacked bones were two full skeletons clothed in the same hooded brown garment as the man who had greeted us. Smaller bones, brown with age, created intricate designs along the walls and ceilings. Against one wall was a fine oil rendition of Lazarous, rising from the dead. At the end of the three small rooms was a small sign.

What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you shall someday be.

I brought my hand to my cheek, feeling my fifteen-year-old bones sharp beneath light brown skin, felt my wrists and the warm, reassuring pulse of vein. The message was not sad, merely a reminder to note the beauty and brevity of life. I left the crypt and blinked again as the sunlight blinded me. Outside the buses, notoriously unreliable, lumbered to the curb and Italians impatiently flung their unfiltered cigarettes to the sidewalk. It is difficult to convey the sentiment of experiencing the Crypt without provoking an automatic negative response from the listener. Mortality is an uncomfortable topic to discuss. There are few people mature enough to listen with cultural curiosity; most, like my fifteen-year-old self, reject it with a “Gross!” Pause. “Does it smell?” This bothered me and I tried to puzzle out why they, why I, had had such reactions. On that first visit I had wanted desperately to laugh with the bravura of youth, to come up with witty one-liners. The hip bone’s connected to the…I found I could not. The bones command respect.

During the next four years I took visiting friends and family to 27 Via Veneto numerous times. There are signs in four different languages reminding visitors not to touch the bones, and yet there are no guards, no alarms, no security cameras. It is expected that visitors will be respectful and this trust has never, to my knowledge, been violated. I never saw anyone grab hold of the 300-year-old lantern and give it a good swing, never saw a child cry at what he was seeing. There is only a waist-high iron gate to prevent a skull from being snatched and yet it has not been done. The same cannot be said of other sites in Rome. Up until recent strict enforcement tourists and Romans themselves had chipped away at the Coliseum.

I went to university in the States. Like many college juniors I elected to study abroad and received a scholarship to Lorenzo di Medici in Florence. The summer before my senior year I returned to Rome for a week-long visit, basking in the familiar aromas of baking pizza and earthy urban life. The same crazed man stood at Piazza Barberini, waving his stick at passing motorinos and Vespas like a man leading a fifty-piece orchestra. I smiled. Walking leisurely along Via Veneto I paused outside the façade, wondering whether I would go inside. I kept walking.

Rome remains the Eternal City, and time still passes.

Katharine Cerezo is a Naval Engineering officer on a forward-deployed ship out of Sasebo, Japan. An ardent fan of Italy, she has lived in Sigonella, Rome, and Florence. She continues to enjoy travelling and exploring off-the-beaten track locations.

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