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On cruise ships with Sarah’s dad, we often talk about what would be the worst job to have. Leaving personality preferences out of it, laundry staff often tops our list. So far in Rome, the worst job I’ve come across is the poor bastard who was the take care of the breakfast room at our hotel. I say this because the room is about twelve feet wide, maybe thirty feet long, and seats about twenty people. It’s like serving breakfast inside a toy submarine. Despite the close quarters, the food is very good: pastries, yogurt, cereal, bread with honey or Nutella, prosciutto, and cappuccino.

We’re taking the subway to the Vatican today. All nearby stations are closed due to escalator repairs, so the day starts with a bit of a hike, but we eventually get to an open station and we’re at our destination soon enough. The line to get inside looks about half a mile long, but it’s sort of now-or-never. The next day is Palm Sunday (which will be insane), and following that is Monday, which is a big tourist day and sure to be just as busy. So we stay and wait and the line actually moves very quickly. What looks like it could have been hours takes no more than twenty minutes. The bottleneck is at the metal detectors. I totally beep walking through them (no idea why) but no one stops me. It’s enough for them to know I have a secret stash of metal, but the final details don’t seem to be too important.

Once inside, we very wisely set a meeting point in case we get separated: the statue of St. Veronica. This immediately puts Susannah in a mood because why can’t we meet at the St. Susannah statue? “Because there is no St. Susannah statue?!?” is what I don’t say. Instead, I just point to any random statue saying, “Maybe that’s St. Susannah! Maybe that’s St. Susannah!” Four minutes of this and she tires of both me and the whole idea. The seven of us pretty immediately get separated into three groups, and we reconvene at out meeting place. Then we decide to go down to the grotto and Sarah’s dad gets caught up in a tide of tourist and misses where we’ve gone. But he knows the drill and goes back to St. Veronica. Because I’m such a damn rebel, I defy the twenty No Re-Entry signs, and squeeze past 1,000 people going in the opposite direction, and I get back into the church to get Grandpa. Before I forget, about the crypts: whoever arranged them has no sense of showmanship. The very first thing you see is St. Peter’s tomb. Save that for the end, people! But no, it’s St Peter, and then three tombs later you’re into tomb’s for people like Monsignor Ludvig Kaas, and by the end they’ve just got pieces of stuff stapled to the wall.

We left the Vatican, got some random takeout pizza (one slice had hot dogs which we thought we be a hit, but the kids saw it for the abomination that it was). Then it was back on the subway to get to St. Paul Outside-the-Walls. When his execution was ordered by Nero, because he was a Roman citizen, St. Paul was taken outside the walls before he was put to death, and the basilica was built on the site of his grave. It was a stark contrast to St. Peter’s, which was mobbed with visitors. We arrived at St. Paul’s at the perfect time, and there were maybe two dozen people there. It was enormous and silent. The whole day, the kids were really well behaved, and very patient with all the walking and all the waiting that the day entailed.

Back at the hotel, we had trouble figuring out a good restaurant. We decided to take our chances wandering the street and immediately next door to our hotel, we were coerced by a restaurant host hustling his menu out front. I find it generally repellant when someone tries to sell me something on the street, and the restaurant itself was 100% empty, so we had a very bad feeling going in. But it was really great. Personable waitstaff who were good with the kids, and the food was good and quick.

Back to the hotel, blogging, bed, end of that day.

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