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Thursday, July 02, 2009 - 01:11 SGT
Posted By: Gilbert

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Final Days In Italy

Before I forget too much...


22 June



Naples.

The day would be devoted to the Amalfi Coast, and after a train ride down to Sorrento, we took a bus along the coast (make that cliff) to Amalfi. It's about the equivalent of hiking in Cinque Terre, without going on foot. Can't knock the scenery [1], whatever else may be said.

Dallied a bit in the coast's namesake town, where I mulled over buying seashells inscribed with astrological signs, but couldn't find the right one. Too bad, since the stores had nice doormats [2]. Passed by the local cathedral [3] (with striped theme), ate a pastry and pizza [4] for lunch, shared a cup of thick melted chocolate [5], and encountered a daring fountain [6].

Hugging the coastline by road didn't give a proper view of the coast, thus a boat ride was called for on the return trip. Passage was ten Euros, and the slow-moving ship [7] took an hour and fifty minutes to cover the distance. There were deckchairs on the top deck, but I took one of the white plastic chairs at the bow, all the better to adjust one's seat to face the coast. My sunglasses looked a better and better investment as the sun gradually came out, and some of the other passengers tried for a tan.


Sky, land, sea


Glimpsed Capri and got used to the rolling motion of the ship eventually, but the ride was over all too soon. Stopped by a supermarket where I found comfy-looking pairs of translucent slip-on shoes, but they didn't come in my size. Too bad for both the store and me. Considered buying proper Bermudas too, but price was the factor this time round.

Being our last night in the home of pizza, it was now or never to sample some from where pizza was born - we didn't count on there being not one, not two, but three shops bearing the same Sorbillo name and proudly displaying a magazine article to that effect [8] on the same street, however. On the other hand, there was only one with a queue outside their front door. There were dozens of choices, and I settled on the pizza with our newfound acquaintance's name - Gaetano [9]. The defining feature was gorgonzola cheese if I remember rightly.

The wifi at the hostel was still out, and though their wired terminals still had a connection, there was no way to transfer any data onto them as the CPU was locked up.


23 June



Rome.

Left La Controra, which was certainly one of the comfier hostels I've been in [1, see wooden bunk beds] [2, the room lights]. Self-service breakfast of cornflakes and juice at the bar area [3], and lunch after the train back to Termini was probably McDonalds. No need for further photos of hamburgers, right?

Checked in back at Overseas B&B, where we had been nearly a month ago. Split into a 5-man [4] and 2-man room, with occ and alvin taking the latter while the rest of us went to Room 001, opposite our original room and where a group of Barca fans had stayed. There was no time to waste as we rushed to get our combo tickets for the Colosseum, Roman Forum and Palatine Hill, just as well since it was somehow early closing day (4 pm).

Entered the Colosseum first, perused the exhibits (with abundant explanations in English) within, appreciated the warning signs on the steps, and stepped out to what must have been a magnificent sight [5] (if not for the condemned, or forced gladiators); think Madison Square Garden, with far higher stakes.

The wooden arena floor has long since disappeared, allowing one to contemplate the foundations and underground passages at one's leisure. All in all, it was pretty well preserved for something nearly 2000 years old. If only the designers had made it large enough to contain a regulation football pitch (arena floor just over 87m at its longest, to a minimum of 90m needed)

Nipped over to the Roman Forum, which was some standing structures [6] and a ton of ruins [7]. Swung by the Arch of Titus, and pondered once again at the enigmatic acronym SPQR (which turns out to refer to the Senate and People of Rome)

*clears throat*

ILLE HIC EST RAPHAEL TIMUIT QUO SOSPITE VINCI / RERUM MAGNA PARENS ET MORIENTE MORI

(Translation: "Here lies Raphael, by whom the mother of all things (Nature) feared to be overcome while he was living, and while he was dying, herself to die")

[occ's occifial-and-more-resonant translation: "Here lies Raphael, whom Nature feared would outdo her while he lived, and when he died, feared that she too would die."]

So goes occ's favourite quote, seen at Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon [8] (make sure to test if he has memorized the Latin version if you come across him). It's not quite his "earthly tomb" according to Angels & Demons, that being Santa Maria del Popolo (which we came across too), but either way the Pantheon is one of the more imposing sights I've come across the entire trip.

One's first impression upon entry is the terrible symmetry - the temple is capped by a dome, not particularly large or high, but with its diameter exactly the same as the distance from the floor to its top; which, it must be stated, is open. The oculus [9] is dramatic in the sun and probably problematic in rain, which is resolved by the presence of discreet drainage holes. On all sides, the coffers run down, making the dome neither plain as unadorned ones, nor gaudy as painted ones, but strong both in function and form.

Collected the yellow tickets for a general audience with his holiness the Pope tomorrow at the Church of Santa Susanna. We then took to the streets in search of dinner, but after not finding a suitable place (re: both cheap and good) for pasta, we reverted to 华侨饭店, where I had the same fried rice. Hey, it's fine for the price, if not completely filling.


24 June



Vatican City.

Witnessed the aftermath of a pickpocketing attempt on the underground on the way to the tiny city-state. The would-be victim, a middle-aged lady, made quite a ruckus, while the accused denied before slipping out at the next stop. No wonder pickpocketing is rife, if the act is so low-risk and high-return.

alvin, occ and I faced quite a queue to get into St. Peter's Square (more a circle), and we got a Swiss Guard into trouble by asking for a photo, which I believe they are not supposed to consent to. This particular guard, less rigid than his peers, nodded for a quick one. Those standing behind the barriers at the guard's back then passed us their cameras for their photos to be taken too, however, and there was now no hiding of his complicity. One of his suited superiors walked over to wag a finger and tut-tut him, making us guiltily realise that he might have gotten extra duties on our part.


Most militaries don't have this much dress sense
(photo credit: occ)


Still, that moment of human kindness was the apex of my visit to one of Christendom's (or Catholicism's, for the pedantic) holiest sites, followed by the sight of Pope Benedict XVI scooting by on his uncovered Popemobile. I certainly didn't expect him to do a second lap, but judging from the reactions of the crowd, it was a welcome encore.

Got handed an anti-abortion pamphlet by an old lady showing line drawings of a foetus being torn apart in the process. On this particular topic, I do for once agree with the Church's stand - abortions of foetuses are extremely distasteful to me, despite the possible societal gains, and I feel that the "choice" in pro-choice should extend only to that of copulation and contraception (which the Catholic Church somehow still opposes), with adoption taking up the slack. The sacredness of human life should be self-evidently universal.

Sat through the Pope's speech with the faithful (and at least a couple of the less-faithful), much of which I couldn't understand, being not in English. The heat and sunlight was problematic for the audience, not a few whom appeared drowsy (a common experience back in NS), and once again my sunglasses saved the day. Quite a large chunk of the time was taken up by acknowledgements of the various groups which had travelled all this way, which was often followed by clapping, cheers, hat-waving or even a song by the group mentioned. Quite an uplifting atmosphere, if not quite Champions League final standard.

Spent some time finding each other after getting separated in the rush of bodies after the end of the audience, and walked some distance to find food at a decent price - even then, a palm-sized slice of pizza [2] cost two Euros. Next was the Vatican museum, where we headed to the Post Office for what must be some of the rarest everyday stamps on Earth. Came across the others (who had skipped the audience), who had completed the Vatican Museums. Well, it was now our turn.

We were to see lots of statues before we were done, but the king of them all must be Michelangelo's Pietà [3]. The one in the photo is just a copy of the actual masterpiece in St. Peter's Basilica, though, as was Raphael's Transfiguration that I saw at the Prado in Madrid, and remembered when confronted with the original in the Pinacoteca Vaticana (there would be another mosiac copy in the Basilica). Note: Try Peter Watson's Crusade for a novel that weaves the Pietà seamlessly into a plot that involves an American Pope. It would make a good movie.

I would likely not be able to tell the difference between them (nothing to be particularly ashamed of, since even art experts commissioned to evaluate paintings are sometimes taken in by fakes), but this led me to wonder - what is the essential nature of great art, given that the technical expertise to copy it is hardly rare? Raphael was feted as an equal to Nature, with Michelangelo not his lesser. In music the likes of Beethoven and Mozart still stand at the apex of regard after centuries, as does Shakespeare in literature. In all these long years, has there really been no one in their class?

Frankly, I doubt it. Let me take football as an example. The teams of the past are often praised, especially the Brazil side of 1970, but also the Dutch Total Football team, the Magical Magyars and the the pre-World War II Italians, among others. Dare I suggest, however, that if transported in a time machine, none of those would be serious contenders for the coming World Cup? Ditto individual players - all respect to Pele, but if he were playing in a major European league today, at the same standard as he did in the Sixties, would he be a standout? I think not.

If nothing else, the sustained breakneck pace that teams have to be prepared to cope with on defence, if not replicate in attack, contrasts with the slowness of the game historically, even taking into account heavier balls, etc. All the skill in the world isn't going to help if one is simply run ragged by opponents, and that's before suggesting that - gasp - players today may have technique equal to or better than the oldies. Once, players could drink before a match and expect to cut it at the top level. No longer.

Of course, the legends of old may have adapted to modern training and dietary techniques, and there is no time machine to carry out my hypothesis. It may also be argued that they are legends precisely due to their achievements relative to their time. I can respect that. Objectively, though, in the sense of a better football team being the one that wins, I stick to my assertion that modern sides are, for all the complaints about cynicism and simulation, simply superior.

This is even more apparent in sports without subjective elements. Take sprinting, which must be one of the purest expressions of sport, for instance. Imagine an old man who watched, say, Reggie Walker take the gold in the 1908 Olympics' century sprint by clocking 10.8 seconds. If the clock had not been invented, he might well have seen Usain Bolt blow the competition away a century on in 9.69, then nod sagely and remark that Walker would have given him a run for his money. In reality, however, Walker would have trailed the last-placed finisher by more than twice the distance that that guy trailed Bolt!

Art cannot be measured as such, perhaps, but as I said to occ after he asked me for my impression on Raphael's The School of Athens, the Gallery of Maps [4] and the Sistine Chapel (we got hustled out for not realising photography was disallowed here in particular, but went right back in when it became apparent that no-one was following the rule anyway), I was both impressed and not impressed at all, the same as if I had gazed upon the first wheel made by prehistoric man.

The art was good, but I have every confidence that it will be bettered, if it has not already been (see for instance a modern take on the all-star cast). I consider it a fault of the ancients that they considered Man's golden age to lie in the past, that Eden has been forever lost (yes, religion doesn't help). Is it not obvious that we will, we must, go faster, stronger and higher? I can only smile at those who accept an image of God cast in the image of all-too-human pettiness, who begrudges Man even his speck of glory in His supposed infinity.

St. Peter's Basilica [5] was indeed vast, as it takes pains to demonstrate with star-shaped markers [6] along the nave to show where the next largest churches would be, if they were placed in the Basilica. It may, however, be only the second largest in the world, after the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace of Yamoussoukro in the Ivory Coast, which at least had the decency not to exceed St. Peter's in length, sidestepping the uncomfortable question of whether another marker need be placed outside St. Peter's to keep the collection complete.

This is another example of the folly of worshiping the past too much - the far greater promises of the future cannot be properly realised. Once, cathedrals, pyramids and other religious buildings were giants of construction, but now they have been so overwhelmingly overtaken by the cathedrals of Man, that few ever think to dwell on the fact; If men were awed by cathedrals to God, which never stood much above 150m, what can they think of the Burj Dubai, over five times the height?

I await a working space elevator in my lifetime. Wouldn't it be a hoot if its builders named it Babel? If some men agree that their conception of God saw fit to crush a tower a mere few kilometres tall, I want to see their faces when one of some 35000km goes up; but one may not blame ancient men - we cannot expect them to be blessed with enough imagination to invent stories of the sort that would stand up today. I mean, how could they have even guessed that men would one day soar above the heavens with impunity? I surely wouldn't have, had I lived then.

Left the Basilica slightly early [7, view of the platform where the Pope sat earlier] to await the others in the middle of the square at six. For our last dinner in Europe, we sought out pasta [8], and despite it being tasty, I'm in no hurry to pay around S$15 for a plate of mushroom noodles again anytime soon. There was then a last walk about Rome, to the Spanish steps (where rose-selling entrepreneurs found little joy with courting couples) and the Trevi fountain [9], which takes in an astonishing 3000 Euros in coins each day, and even Italy's biggest McDonalds (got an ice-cream).


The heretic yet stands


The crowning moment of the day was none of the above, though, but my sighting of Giodarno Bruno's statue (see previous tribute) at the Campo dei Fiori (Field of Flowers). Raised in the city of the successor to Saint Peter, at the spot where he was burnt for his beliefs. Unlike Raphael, he supplied his own epitaph, to men whom were somehow convinced they could speak for God:

MAIORI FORSAN CUM TIMORE SENTENTIAM IN ME FERTIS QUAM EGO ACCIPIAM

(Translation: "Perhaps you pronounce this sentence against me with greater fear than I receive it")

Ah, the shame! They condemned your truths to flames, desperate to preserve their tainted light! Yet today your fire burns more brightly than those tired rays passing through stained glass, and ever more fools like myself will continue to deny in their hearts, that sort of jealous God.

Why this dislike, you may ask; what has this God done to you? Let me try a little parable:

Two kids are playing on the streets.

Kid One: "My father died in the war to save us! He was a great man."

Kid Two: "I'm sure of that. My father, as well as my uncle and two brothers, also died in the war."

Kid One: "Um no, I'm sorry. They don't really count."

Kid Two: "What?"

Kid One: "You see, it's because my dad was the greatest man to have ever lived (my mum said so), and only his way of living is the correct one. Your father, uncle and brothers were merely common men. It is a sin to respect them equally to my dad."

"But it's alright! He loves all of you too, and doesn't care whether you are rich or poor. Just renounce your other ties and change your surname to mine. It's that easy."

Kid Two: "Um..."

Kid One: "I really don't understand why you don't want to join our family. By the way, if you don't, you deserve to burn in hell for ever and ever since you had the chance but didn't take it up."

Kid Two: "Hold on, that doesn't seem fair or right at all. My friend, who sadly died of illness recently, was a great chap who always helped those in need. You know him too, remember? He always gave his food to the more needy even when he was hungry. What of him?"

Kid One: "Ah yes, I know him. Unfortunately I asked him to join my family on his deathbed, but he refused. I'm sorry, he's probably in hell now. I may not especially like it, but it's true, and it's his own fault."

Kid Two: "How could you believe such a thing?"

Kid One: "*Sigh* Look, how you actually act, the deeds you do, are all secondary. The far more important thing is to, at the end of the day, say that you believe in my very special dad, who really loves you."

Kid Two: "You know what?"

Kid One: "Yes?"

Kid Two: "F**k you."



That is the key reason, and the fundamental problem of the Abrahamic religions. Couched behind all the exhortations to virtue, which are recognized by almost all religions, and the non-religious alike, is the defining attribute: We practise the only true faith. Join or suffer the consequences. Some practitioners may try to downplay the significance of this declaration, but like the fine print in contracts, it is there, and it is official. While it exists and is believed in, the suffering it encourages, the ostracization or self-important pity towards decent people who happen not to have the same imaginary friend, can only continue.



25/26 June

Flew from Rome to Hong Kong, then Singapore.

The first flight was movie time, and now it's review time:

1. Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li

Edmund Chen Zhicai making it as Chun Li's father lifted my eyebrows, but otherwise it was disappointing. Street Fighter is the arcade platform fighter franchise, and frankly speaking none of the magic rubbed off on the film. Reintepretation is okay, but when none of the main characters' backstories bear resemblance to the Capcom canon, the movie can't help but feel like a shoddy B-grade action flick with a crowd-pulling name tacked on - which, come to think of it, is exactly what The Legend of Chun-Li is. Where are all the signature moves, and why's Vega so laughably useless? One of the original babes of gaming (Chun Li, not Vega) deserves far more than this.

Save your money and stream College Humor's Street Fighter: The Later Years series instead. It's far more entertaining, and probably has better production values.

My rating: 2/5

2. There's Something About Mary

Watched this mostly for the Cameron Diaz of 1998, but of course SilkAir had to censor all the interesting bits, which were the whole point of the movie. Lame.

My rating: 2.5/5 (censored version)

3. Watchmen

The best of the lot that I've watched in the air. Style, smarts and character come together in this comic-book world, with an opening sequence that rewards history buffs - spot the references to the famous V-J day in Times Square photograph and The Last Supper, among others.

Watchmen, like many superhero-themed stories, has to confront the problem of having one of the heroes that much more super than the rest. In this case, the heroes are all at "peak human" physical ability, except Dr. Manhattan, who can control subatomic particles, is effectively invulnerable, can teleport through space, split into multiple copies and even see the future. It's almost as if the storywriter gave him all the team's powers to distribute, but he forgot to do so.

The traditional answer is a manufactured canned weakness (e.g. Kryptonite for Superman), but in Dr. Manhattan's case, it is emotional: his affection for Silk Spectre. Not that he overshadows the others - The Comedian is a cynical jerk who still manages to come off as likeable, Rorschach is a morally absolute near-psychopath, and Veidt is a disdainful mastermind who does get the part about revealing one's secret plans only after they take effect, right. The "world's smartest man" seemingly can't choose a password that isn't an actual word closely related to himself, however.

Nite Owl and Silk Spectre are the two more well-adjusted ones, and it isn't too unbelievable that they get together. Slick, dark, visually arresting - perhaps the director could turn his attention to Street Fighter next time.

My rating: 4.5/5

4. Austin Powers in Goldmember

Okay, I didn't realise that Myers was not only Austin Powers, but Dr. Evil, Goldmember and Fat Bastard before I read the Wikipedia entry. So sue me. I also quite like juvenile humour. So sue me again. Unless you're actually a lawyer, in which case I was just joking. Really.

My rating: 4/5

5. Look for a Star (游龙戏凤)

An Andy Lau and Shu Qi romantic comedy. Adequate, laced with a few touching moments.

My rating: 3/5

6. Way of the Dragon (猛龍過江)

Rome is revisited in this Bruce Lee classic. One can't help but notice how little the city has changed, with the beginning of the movie almost like a tour to the major attractions. Too bad the plane would land before the first real fight could get started.

My rating: 3.5/5 (from memory)



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