Buzzing at 80 Degrees

There is something iconic about always turning the wrong way out of the metro, similar to Molly Ringwald and her constant portrayal of the 80’s teenage ginger. The map made it look simple enough but if we are being honest with ourselves, which I am usually not, I don’t often carry a map on me. Luckily during this trip I have resided in a reverse Oreo situation where both of my cookie sides keep maps handy. Coming up upon a four way intersection we quickly noticed the fountain directly opposite of us, and then another to the right. Then one to the left, and then, as if three baroquely decorated fountains were not enough, there was a fourth one behind us. Suddenly we had found ourselves surrounded by selfie sticks, shopping bags and aggressive gargling. Momentarily searching for an exit out of rule-less traffic tourist hybrid zone, I checked to make sure that the quartet of elderly runners that had nearly stampeded us ten minutes before were not attempting a second go. Who knew museum life came at a price?

As an individual I prefer the high of museum sifting to that of any other drug. Red wine excluded. I was prepared for a morning of art I could never afford so graciously placed where I could see it and the humming sounds of people complaining about their feet. However, standing at the four corners of fountain deemed death, I was questioning my decision to leave the comfort of Giolitti’s breakfast club. Taking a hard right we bounced along seeing museum paraphernalia and suddenly things were looking up. The lion gates protecting the Palazzo had been sung asleep by a near by harp and we walked into the court yard without a scratch. The rush and fuss of the streets had subsided into a lapping layered pool of water and stone. After one single breath I felt as if I had been transported from modern day Rome into a court yard draped in magic. There was a simultaneous smile painted across each of our faces as we turned towards each other, all sixteen candles had been blown out and the gifts unwrapped. We were content in our choices, no second guessing them. 

Each staircase stole our breath, moving us from one world to the next. Renaissance paintings revolving around disproportionally drawn female bodies and babies that would eventually gain intellectual abilities that would rival evolutionary theories on child development. The bees could be hear throughout the architectural imperialistically designed home. Wandering alone from one nobleman throwing shade to another I found myself tip toeing past a well dressed Spader with knuckle ink, intensely occupied by his cellphone. His disinterest in the art work, while understandable was disheartening and slightly contagious. Jericho had met his match however, when I stumbled into an empty room. The aged mustard wallpaper led my eyes from the detailed floor to the heavens, painted in gold. In what the hanging master pieces could not achieve, the 3D musculature of winged angels had created an image worth breaking your neck over. At least for a moment.

        

(Palazzo Barberini)