Just as I had finally come to love the bright Italian sun, it disappeared. In its place were layers of grey clouds hanging over the entire city. It was two days before I was to board a Continental Airlines flight back to the states, and I had the day to myself. Being sentimental, I wanted to bid Roma arrivederci somehow. Its ruins, monuments, fountains, churches, and dusty history had revealed itself so fully to me throughout the semester, embracing me as its own little Roman citizen, that the city deserved this final attention
Boarding the 280 bus—the one with the longest route—my destination was unknown. The bus was crowded, which seemed appropriate for my final day out and about; it was reminiscent of life in this city. Italians pressed into my sides, frighteningly unaware of a sense of personal space. As the crowd dispersed, I followed the flow and descended to meander around Trastevere.
Medieval styled homes and popular restaurants rose along my sides. Ivy gathered as thickly around corners as the locals did to smoke and chat. Meanwhile, my feet drummed against the cobblestone of the narrows streets. Despite the fact that I had to avoid speeding motorini, I could not help but feel as though I was traveling through time.
Eventually my feet led me to the Church of Saint Cecilia where the famed statue of the saint, by Stefano Maderno, is housed. This Church, also home to a convent of Byzantine nuns, is preceded by a large, walled courtyard with luscious grass, a circular fountain, and palm trees—all popular Christian symbols of the afterlife, markings habitual to the Eternal City. I walk through the area, marveling that the fountain has not yet frozen over in this early winter weather. My eyes are next drawn to the colossal doors of the church’s marble façade. They have been left open and I proceed into the narthex. Having expected a normal Baroque-style interior, I am surprised when it is not my ears but my eyes that are pricked. Before me, thirty nuns stood upon the altar, their voices more consoling than the smoothest instrumental tunes could ever be. I backed away, afraid to interrupt their ceremony and yet pleased to discover that their song followed me out of doors. Situating myself on the corner of a column’s podium, I pulled out my guide about Rome and began to read about the church that awaited me.
Deeply entranced by the information about the church, my eyes followed line after line. I was startled out of my trance by a distant scream; it is high pitched and joyful. “Neve!! Oh mio dio, neve! Neve, neve, neve!” My mind quickly processes the Italian and my eyes are drawn towards the heavens above the fountain of the squared courtyard. The children whom I have heard are correct; it is indeed snowing.
This moment seems romantic to me and it will be one of the most cherished ones that I bring home. It was the perfect summary of my experience this semester: I sat in the courtyard of paradise, a Roman column at my back, an immovable, marble church looming beyond, a book in my hands, and snow falling gently above my head. All I could do was smile at the sky.
