The Vestal Morons

The Land of Milk and Honey (and Wine) Part II By Romulus We are late for lunch. This is not a good thing. It is a terrifying thing. At the wheel is Sergio Mionetto, world-renowned maker of some of the finest wine in all of Italy, and arguably clinically insane (though, of course, I put little faith at all in the classifications of clinics; I only mention this as a desperate attempt to put the man into some sort of perspective). He drives faster and tries to whistle carelessly, but is unconvincing. We haphazardly wind through the pre-alps, speeding on concrete roads that frequently and unexpectedly fold into sudden hairpin turns. Every so often we break out through the trees, at which moments we are firmly hit, flat in the eyes, with a vision of the whole gigantic panorama of the verdurous, sprawling valley of Venezia, before it is snatched away as we again speed back into the dense forest. Of all of Julian’s relatives to leave waiting Zia Pia is, by a large margin, the one about whom a

What St. Peter's looks like at 6:00AM. I don't know why these panoramas load so small on blogger. Anyway, perhaps it's for the best; what with no tripod and all a few of the photos I stitched together are a little blurry.

On the way to the traditional Circus Maximus race. The start of the men's race. The start of the women's race. Dannilu takes the women's race despite being wrapped in a comforter...er...I mean toga. The official coronation ceremony of the victors. Strangely enough, I think this is the first photo that I have posted of our dearly beloved Mr. and Mrs. Akers. For those Rome students who are considering the Rome program, I'm sure all us Romans can assure you that this beautiful couple is more than enough of a reason to come. Anyway, we will write much more about them in the future.

Swiss Cheese By Remus I woke up at 5:15 AM at the oppressive dictatorship of my alarm clock, but as the reign of passion had dethroned my reason, kicking it down the stairs in a heartless regicide, I stabbed the meddlesome clock in the dark, silencing the prophet and his admonitions, closing my eyes to its lifeless corpse to enjoy a day of quiet, to refuse such undue demands of penance. An unseen hour passed. I woke up again in a gasp, veering my eyes again to my advisor’s silenced pleas, seeing for the first time the error of my ways, but it was too late. He was dead. “John,” I addressed, this time to my roommate, another advisor and moreover my master. “John. When were we suppose to wake up to go the Vatican?” In lethargic resistance, similar to mine, with his head engulfed in a pillow, characteristic of Jalsevac’s sleeping posture, he answered in a muffled filter, “Uh ... 5:40.” “Oh, no,” I noted, in peril seasoned with a pinch of despair. “It’s 7:15. We’re late. They’ve left

In Subiaco Within the world of men there are (Or so the rumour goes) Some men who love the motorcar The way its fuel explodes The angry pistons’ rumbling The screech of spinning tires And smoke and flame and bubbling Combustion’s fumes and fires. Of others yet I have been told Who fly into a rage At mention of the things of old. The prophet and the sage They’ll bind and flog and crucify Within the marketplace And all the while they’ll shriek and sigh And curse the fickle fates. With these I’ll hold no concourse now Perhaps some other time For now I’ll bend my head, and bow, I’ll not commit the crime Of shallow men, of hollow men Of men who desecrate The dead they cannot understand Who can but curse the fates. Here is a silence, and a peace We cannot replicate. Our music our motorcars Cannot approximate. For all this blessed hallowed ground Once looked upon the face The silent boy whose searching found Our God within a cave. These ancient stones I’ll lean

In the town of Subiaco, home of the papacy's former summer residence, the ruins of Nero's giant villa, and the monasteries of Benedict and Scholastica, and ten others, we came upon this unexpected place of worship. The headquarters (or maybe midquarters or footquarters) of the Communist Party. I think the party's office workers were slightly taken aback at the evident glee this find caused our entire group of thirty students. Walking the steps that lead from the bottom of the mountain up to the monastery of St. Scholastica, and then, a couple thousand steps beyond this first place of meditation, that monastery named after her famous brother, St. Benedict. At the head of this group is our beloved Dublin-native chaplain, Fr. Mark. Halfway up the mountain. Subiaco is laid out before us, built at the base of, and all the way up a mountain, the whole amazing thing culminates in the fortress of the papacy's ancient and now abandoned summer residence. Leaving the monastery of

At today's audience.

The Mouth of Truth. Legend has it that if you tell a lie and stick your hand in its mouth it will bite you. Apparently Julian is just so full of falsehood that it has even seeped into his very clothing. He did not win this battle for his sweater.

Julian's family. Now our adopted Italian family as well. Generous beyond belief, welcoming beyond understanding, and a heck of a lot of fun.

What can one say to this? The photo stands alone. The kings of pigeanity. In Venice, In Venice The cover of their next album. Just as soon as they learn to play some instruments. Here we are some many thousand feet above sea level. It was cold, very cold. And if it weren't for the mist Venice should have been distinctly visible about 60 kilometers to the East. Halfway up the cross, what may look like clouds are not clouds, but are the Alps. I won't try to describe them; go there and you'll know for yourself. Looking out over Valdobbiadene. Drinking wine straight from 30,000 liter tanks is not an experience to be lightly passed over. Mine and Geoff's adopted Italian family. Two of the loveliest, kindest, most generous people I have ever had the pleasure to meet. The view from the room at the house where Geoff and I stayed. It looks East, straight towards the Meditteranean, looking out over the entire valley of towns and villages and how many thousands of vineyards. And s

In Class in Rome By Romulus Something of the Renaissance Is on that page, inside this book. Such lovely, lifelike lines, you see? You’d like it if you’d only look. Across the flowing Tiber Begins to swing a booming bell As if to say; “Here is the spot Where wept the painter, Raphael.” The voice drones on I think to yell: Why don’t you show Instead of tell!

Ramblings from Rome The Land of Milk and Honey (and Wine) (Part I?) By Romulus for The Rambler I once had the pleasure of corresponding with my roommate’s father. In conducting the little literary business at hand (he has something or other to do with the American Chesterton Society) we exchanged a few e-mails between the two of us. At the end of our correspondence I found it fit to complement Mr. Ahlquist on producing a son of the sort as Julian, who has become a great friend of mine in the last year and a half, and with whom I am most sorry you freshmen have not have the pleasure of making an acquaintance. And then, as I drew towards that spot in my final bit of correspondence, the point where one traditionally affixes one’s name beneath one or another courteous phrase, I paused, and I thought a bit. I thought to myself that it is certainly a time-tested truism, a truism sadly forgotten in the West, that a knowledge of the origins of a man contribute much to the knowledge of who, ex

The Re-Annexation of Innocence By Romulus For The Rambler It had been my intention to write this week about my adventures of this past weekend, immersed in the glories of the island of Ischia, just off the Western coast of Southern Italy. But the day here in Rome has been cold, and rainy, and dreary. And I have spent it in bed, suffering the pains of a particularly unusual, and particularly painful headache. Further, today as I lay tossing and turning in my bed it happened, as is often the case in illness, that certain current anxieties appeared to me magnified and vividly. I woke several times from terrifying dreams, and found myself unable to return to sleep. And with the specter of several tests looming over my head, and the obligation of composing an article before the end of the night, the sand and the sun and the blue sea of Ischia seem as a distant, and not very believable dream. Thus are my thoughts unable to focus on Ischia long enough to translate the beauty of the reality

Ischia. Need I say more?

In what can only be described as the perfect weekend, we somehow found a hostel that was more akin to a private house than anything. Internet access, fully equipped kitchens, and a lovely balcony that looked out over the city of Forio, on the Western side of the island. My birthday dinner. The girls made an absolutely splendid dinner with all the trimmings. And a cake at the end, which was very thoughtful. The rich colours of sunset, with Caitlyn and Emma leaning on the railings of the balcony of our hostel. Nobody could possibly ever believe what it is like to be driven through the "streets" (and I use the term loosely) of Forio on the island of Ischia, by a twenty-two year old Italian who has lived there all his life, and knows the streets much, much better than he knows the back of his hand. This is how wide the streets were. And there is a 90 degree turn to be navigated just behind our backs. Now do that in the pitch black, at thirty-five miles an hour. Italians are crazy

The bus-station in Naples. Alright, so it's not that exciting. Unless of course you take into consideration the fact that this is Naples, in the South of Italy, sitting comfortably on the Mediterranean. Then I suppose it's a little exciting. Anyway, it is for all of us. We enjoyed it. In actual fact, we always knew precisely where we were going at all times. Unless, of course, we didn't. But other than that... The portent that we encountered minutes after leaving the port at Naples, clearly proving that God favoured our journey. And considering how unbelievably well the weekend worked out, in every possible way, that's not too much of a stretch really. We encountered some rain on Friday. But it was actually quite lovely. And the following day we had pretty much cloudless skies and everything else that could possibly make Ischia as beautiful as possible.