Ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

A lot of kids worship superheroes. As a kid, I worshiped the guy who painted superheroes. Guess I’ve always been an art nerd.

So, of course, one of the first stops on our first trip to Italy was the Sistine Chapel. Getting there ain’t all that easy. Even though we got a hotel room less than two blocks from St. Peter’s, even though we ordered tickets for the museum online before leaving, even though we bought sensible shoes, getting to the Sistine Chapel isn’t  just, well, like going to church. All of the above helped. But basically, the Vatican is Europe’s version of Disneyworld. There are lots and lots and LOTS of people. And most of them are in the same line you need to be in. Few speak English. But everyone seems glad to be there. So, you bump along in line for more than an hour. You pass great works of art, great historical artifacts, great visual testaments to the greatness of Roman Catholicism. But mostly you notice that different folks from different cultures have different ideas of personal space from you. No biggie. You’re glad to be there. And then, just when you think you’ve walked far enough to have circled the city ten times, you’re pushed through a little door under Michelangelo’s “Last Judgment”.

Guards and guides urge you along, intoning, “No stopping!”, “No standing!”, “No photo!” Sure, now everyone speaks English. Hold on! I’ve waited all my life — and most of that in line with half of humanity — to get here and now I’m going to be shoved through like a dirty Fiat in a quickie car wash? Don’t think so… As Sandra and I reach the middle of the room, the crowd slows and begins to mill about, mostly looking up. The mood has turned festive and noisy. The guards constant “Shhh!” and “Silenzio, per favore!” is rambunctiously ignored.

Old wooden benches line the walls. We work our way towards them and wait a few minutes until a generous space opens. We sit and stare up. And stare. And stare. And then, for just a moment, all falls quiet. All of the party buzz, all the intonations of “No photo!”, all the shuffling of sensible shoes on stone fall eerily and majestically silent.

I’m not going to try to describe what we saw. This room’s been written about for centuries by eloquent authors. I’ll not quote them. There aren’t words. That’s the point. This is a visual place.