To build, or not to build: What the "Ground Zero" Mosque controversy tells us about today's America

Reactionary blogging can be dangerous, especially when it delves into a contentious and highly important topic. Yet, when an issue like the building of an Islamic center in lower Manhattan seems to be on the cusp of creating a dangerous precedent in the realm of Constitutional protection, a responsible American cannot keep silent forever.

I apologize if the intro sounds a bit conservative, especially with the "keep silent" bit, but with protection of the Constitution acting as a fulcrum for the Tea Party agenda, it seems only fair that those who put themselves a bit farther to the Left should be able to do the same.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..."

These are the first words of the 1st Amendment to the Constitution; the first words of the Bill of Rights. Without digressing into an elementary school history lesson, it's important to remember that some of the first English settlers in what would later become the United States came here specifically to ensure that this right was maintained and protected. The English government has long since usurped this power, and held the keys to anyone's ability to act in what they deemed to be a religiously faithful manner. Thus, 1620 rolled around, and the English separatists came to start a new life.

Yes, our defense of religious liberty has been a bit dicey from time to time. Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson has to escape a bit of religious zealotry. Jewish immigrants in the 1880s weren't always welcomed with open arms, and as we all might remember, it wasn't until 1960 that the American public became sufficiently convinced that a Catholic could be President without being subservient to the wishes of the Pope. It hasn't been easy, but step by step, we've insured that Americans, whatever their national origin or faith tradition, can practice their religion in peace.

This of course brings us to the present day, where heat is building over the proposed building of an Islamic Center on Park Avenue in Lower Manhattan. Opponents cite the building's close proximity to Ground Zero as an automatic nix on construction moving forward. Calling the proposal "disrespectful" and "insensitive." Being two blocks away from the site of the September 11 attacks is too close for comfort for many Americans, bringing back bad memories, and ultimately being seen as a slap in the face of those who lost loved ones on that day.

I can sympathize. September 11 was a traumatic day for all Americans, including then young kids like me, who couldn't understand the true gravity of the situation. I remember being glued to the TV for days on end, waiting to see what would happen to the country that I love so much. To many, the talk of building anything associated with the Islamic faith brings these memories washing back, and no one likes to relive those.

However, reactionary tendencies CANNOT be the building blocks of our public policy, or even minor land-use decisions in urban settings.

We have to remember a few things. The proposed building is going in an abandoned Burlington Coat Factory. It's not being built anew, and like any other legitimate establishment, the property was bought legally, and is up to this point following all the necessary building procedures. But that's all technicality.

What potentially disturbs me the most is how the terrible memory of 9/11 is being used as a guise for what is, in my opinion, true religious bigotry. The proposed Islamic Center--and I must outline the obvious difference between an Islamic Center and a Mosque--is being constructed by The Cordoba Initiative an organization whose stated mission is "to actively promote engagement through a myriad of programs, by reinforcing similarities and addressing differences." By bringing up the memory of 9/11, so many opponents of the building are making the huge, uneducated mistake of lumping all Muslims together--insinuating that al-Qaeda, Hezbullah, Hamas, the Cordoba Initiative and the Muhammed family down the street, all practice a monolithic faith which preaches hate, intolerance, and murder. WRONG. We as Americans really should know better.

Not to say that we haven't made the same mistakes before. We often forget the differences between Christian denominations. I had to explain to so many of my classmates how it was that I was born, considering my father was a "minister." Of course, it's only Catholic priests (and other priests in more stringent Eastern Orthodox sects) who take a vow of chastity. I also had to remind a lot of angry gay friends of mine, that the United Church of Christ, and many other mainline protestant churches, don't decry homosexuality, and instead welcome all people regardless of sexual orientation. It's very easy make rash generalizations in lieu of actually learning the truth for one's self, but when we risk labeling people "terrorists" or "murderers," we really need to be a bit more prudent.

Then there's the overall issue of religious liberty. Talking with my Dad a bit earlier today, I expressed my knowledge and overall sympathy with those who would prefer that anything to do with Islam not be built so close to Ground Zero. But, he said, is anywhere far away enough? Would people really think that it was better if the Center was built on Staten Island or Jersey City? The underlying issue my father raised is that if we are truly serious about defending religious liberty in this country, people of conscience, and dare I say, patriotic persuasion, need to stand up to defend the Cordoba Initiative's Constitutional right to build the center wherever they choose. They've followed the law, they've hurdled the red tape, and now it seems perfectly LEGAL for them to go forward. If we allow the objections of some to overshadow the larger principle, then we're sending a very dangerous signal. If you shout loud enough and evoke enough emotion then you can get your way.

The hubbub over this particular project has drawn attention to other proposed Islamic centers and mosques in places like New Jersey and Tennessee. Issues which showcase far more religious intolerance than their New York counterpart, but shed light on the much larger issue. If we truly want to champion religious liberty, it's not good enough to say, "we support Islam and the building of mosques, just not here." Religious liberty doesn't have qualifiers, it doesn't cede to people with signs that read "don't glorify murders" (above photo courtesy of CNN.com) and it certainly doesn't get choosy when its ability to protect members of all faiths steps on the toes of a couple of people.

Although he's regrettably backtracked a bit, President Obama restated this principle in his recent address to Muslims gathered at the White House to celebrate the beginning of Ramadan.

"This is America. And our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakeable. The principle that people of all faiths are welcome in this country and that they will not be treated differently by their government is essential to who we are. The writ of the Founders must endure."

This is what we have to remember. However much we may not like it, or approve of it, or consider it insensitive or imprudent, we must respect the right of faiths to practice peacefully.

Furthermore, we should be helping, not discouraging groups like The Cordoba Initiative in bridging the gaps between people of faith, and people of no-faith. In this age where we're quick to label Muslims as "terrorists," Christians as "intolerant homophobes" and many other religions as "weird and inappropriate," we need to be making a much more concerted effort to encourage religious diversity and dialogue and thus refrain from immediately attacking and maligning those and that which we don't completely understand.

What this entire episode has shown us is that we have a long way to go before we will be a truly tolerant society. Some people will never get there, others are praying that we can simply see and respect different, let alone begin to understand it. We don't have to agree. We don't have to fly a star and crescent outside of our house. We don't have to know Five Pillars by heart. All we need to do is remember why we love our country so much, and remind ourselves that so much of what makes this country great is that we allow people to be different, allow them to forge new lives here, and allow a public forum to be maintained where ideas can be shared, cultures and religions can coexist in separate but equal stature, and ultimately, we can live together in peace.

Martin Niemoller was a German theologian who lived and worked in the era of Nazism. At first he was in support of Hitler's rise to power, but he soon became disillusioned with what the Third Reich stood for and eventually became a leader of a group of German clergy opposed to Hitler's policies. One of his most famous works was a short poem which he presented as part of a speech to the Confessing Church in Frankfurt in 1946.

"THEY CAME FIRST for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.

THEN THEY CAME for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.

THEN THEY CAME for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.

THEN THEY CAME for me
and by that time no one was left to speak up."

Niemoller's moral is at the heart of what I'm trying to say. It's easy for me as a progressive Christian, who has no familial ties to 9/11, and who has numerous Muslim friends and acquaintances, to speak out against what I see as clear religious bigotry. But my message isn't to people like me.

To people who feel that building an Islamic Center at its current location is insensitive, think of the message that you're sending. We're welcoming, but we get to choose when and where. We're saying: we consider ourselves intelligent people, but obviously all Muslims are just like Osama bin Laden--so building anything associated with Islam in Manhattan is ceding victory to terrorists. I know it hasn't been directly said, but this IS what we're insinuating. This IS how we're supposedly shining our "beacon of freedom." This is the example we're setting for the "free world" which we unabashedly claim to lead.

Allowing others to peacefully practice their faith, as well as educate others does not disrespect those who died on 9/11. Instead, allowing the center to exist and operate is a direct example of the liberty which this country embodies.

We love freedom in this country, or at least we claim to. Let's take this opportunity to show it.

Far too long

So it's been far too long since I posted, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, and most obviously, I guess, I'm not in Scotland any more. Auntie Em, Auntie Em! The blog was mostly used for Scotland--both the trip last summer and the much more extensive one last semester--and since both of those are in the past, a lot of the use of this blog has passed by the wayside.

However, I'm far too extroverted to keep quiet. Surprise, surprise!

I guess this will once again transition back to being a repository of thoughts; a place where I can just vent to the world, whilst still knowing that the world doesn't really care--which actually makes me feel better. I always function better when I can record my thoughts. Whether they be spoken too someone, written long day (which usually makes my arm hurt) or just type them down here.

That's what this will be. I don't really know what direction I'll take it in. I'm sure that if something Scotland related peaks my interest then I'll talk about it here. Or something football (soccer) related, or political in anyway. But by no means will that limit the content.

So it's nearing the end of July--already. Home has been a nice place to be, despite the fact that "home" has shifted from an old farm house on one side of South Portland, to a much newer condo on the other side. Maine is always a refreshing place to be, especially in the summer. The weather is warm (often too much so, considering the lack of central air in this part of the world) and the people are friendly. It was obvious once I stepped foot on Maine soil again, some two months ago, why I love this place so much, and why I hope to be able to live here long term.

Yet, Maine does have its drawbacks. Friends have decided to go elsewhere for summer internships, and overall, the sweet, laid-back reality of "school boy summers" have made way for the more frantic pace of the real world. All my friends, and myself of course, have taken on more permanent positions, with more important responsibilities, and that creates a dearth of hang-out time. Schedules are packed more easily, and for the most part, down time is spent alone with my XBOX or my computer, or just thinking about life, rather than romping about. I guess it's good to get a taste of this before the actual world comes into fruition in June.

But the lack of things to do leaves me yearning for Bates even more. This feeling is definitely accentuated by the fact that I wasn't there last semester, as well as by the fact that I only have one more year to spend there. Combined, these realities make me anxious to get started. Thesis seems to be the placeholder until classes get going. No surprise that I'm already stressing about, and trying to get research done in a feeble attempt to ward off the demons. I know the whole year--thesis and all--will turn out just fine, but the anticipation is killing me.

That's where things stand at this point. Maine is wonderful, but even the sound of bagpipes, or the roar of the Ibrox crowd on any recording will quickly transport be back across the Atlantic. I can only hope that Scotland and I are only separated for a short span of time.

Ironic?

So this is it...my last Friday in Edinburgh, the penultimate 24 hours. I feel beyond weird, and while that doesn't really surprise me, the mix of emotions I'm feeling kind of do. While I wouldn't have called you crazy if you had told me that I wouldn't want to leave Edinburgh, I would have thought it highly unlikely to happen now. For weeks now all I've been able to think about is home: what it will be like, who I will see, what I can do. Home seemed like the thing that I could almost touch, the end-all-be-all, the only place in the world that I wanted to be. Of course that is still the case, but the sheer joy of freedom that I was expecting to feel come the end of my last exam yesterday was quickly replaced with a deep sickness in my stomach. It's the feeling of sadness, of a tad bit of regret, of the feeling one would associate with actually leaving home. Edinburgh has been home for almost five months. I've made it my own in so many ways. I've shopped at the same grocery stores down the street. I've gone to the same gym, I've walked the same paths and hung out with the same friends. Unlike leaving a place after a lengthy vacation, this feels far more personal. And while I'm sure that my lethargy will be replaced with ecstasy once I do get home, for now I feel more sadness than excitement.

It all comes back to that theme of home: what does home mean, and whether or not one can have multiple homes. I feel that I do. As much as I'm attached to the US, to Maine, to South Portland, I feel just as connected to Edinburgh and to Scotland. This is home, and as such, it doesn't really surprise me that I'm feeling reluctant to leave. I feel that the stress of exams was the thing that was pushing me homewards. No matter how much or little they mattered, revising and actually sitting for such things is never fun. And unfortunately, that experience ate away at the last three weeks that I'll ever spend living in Edinburgh. Part of that is my fault, of course. I don't know how to study a little bit, and because of my overall boredom come three weeks ago, it made sense to just jump in head-first, get the material back in my head, and prepare myself as best I could. After finishing all three, I feel like I succeeded at that. Yet committing so much of myself to those exams meant that I couldn't do so for other things, the things that mean the most to me in this place. I was able to walk around and take photos. I was able to watch three seasons of The Wire and enjoy every minute. I was able to joke around and be a kid with my flat mates. But it wasn't what it could have been.

Now it's all done. Exams no longer own me, and as such I've returned to the land of nothing to do. But that isn't a bad thing any more. All of a sudden, I just want to do the things I did a month ago. I want to be able to have more fun times with the guys that I've learned to love. The grand irony of it all is that for so long all I've wanted to do is go home, and now that going home is less than 48 hours away, I want to stay instead. Again, it's theoretically not a surprise. I always have problems with leaving one situation and going to another, especially when I've invested myself heavily in both. Soon I'll be back in South Portland, able to drive, to see friends, to drink real coffee, to move to a new house. But I won't get to sit and watch hours of Sky Sports News. I won't get to drink Stella by the case--that's probably a good thing. I won't get to just be a kid.

Another precipitating factor in me not wanting to go is that I sense that leaving Edinburgh marks the beginning of adulthood. I've turned 21 here. I've finished my Junior year here. When I get home it will be off to do campaign work, to work in the public policy field. Then it will be off to start thesis research, to start my senior year, and ultimately graduate from Bates in a year. That's just a scary chain of events. If I was a kid at all when I got here, I'm sure not one anymore. Yes, I can still joke and act like a kid. But both the growing up that this lifestyle has necessitated, and the impending end of college have made me realize that I'm officially an adult. Thankfully I get some of the comforts of college life for another couple months. But the job search must start eventually. The realization that this is the last summer of just being a kid home from school and that every event at Bates may be the last of this or the last of that. I know that I'm always one who likes to jump from extreme to extreme. It may still be too much to say that I'm not a kid and am officially an adult, but signs definitely point in that direction.

So here's to junior year now done. Here's to getting to go to clubs and play ring of fire. Here's Edinburgh. It's been a crazy journey. While it was not what I expected, it's provided me with a unique opportunity to find myself. I've realized that I'm different in some ways than I had thought to begin with, and that some of my tendencies are actually what I should be doing. I don't like to drink heavily all that much. I'm very stingy with money. I don't laugh enough. I need to relax a bit more. But I'm very good at life so far. These are but a few of the lessons that I've learned here, and maybe it's because this experience has taught me so much about myself, and my world that I'm so reluctant to leave. Maybe it's because I'm scared about what everyone at home will make of me. Will they notice the changes that I see in myself? Are these changes actually real, or are they just figments of my imagination? Time will tell. As for now, I can only enjoy the last few hours, pack my things, and head back to what I know. In the end, it's not that ironic that I don't want to leave...but I'm glad that I don't. All good things must come to and end, and this was definitely good.

The Beautiful Letdown

"It was a beautiful letdown...when I crashed and burned."

These lyrics are definitely more mellow dramatic than my mood right now, but they come from Switchfoot, a band that guided me through a lot of tough times. Even if you're not a big fan of Christian rock--I'm not anymore, but definitely was when I was in middle school--they have some really provocative lyrics that seem to connect to my life still.

The bottom line is that I've reached the end, and not a moment too soon. As my last post reflected, the last month has been a real emotional roller coaster. Coming from an amazing trip, to having the flat to myself, to getting bored of that and immensely lonely, to beginning the process of studying, to freaking out about exams and feeling very under prepared, to today, having finished one exam. Now, for better or worse, the pre-exam freakout has been traded to complete restlessness. First off, I've studied over 85 hours for these exams (3 of them) which is way more than I ever have for any exams in my life. From this comes the grand irony of it all--my grades barely count. Based on my participation and essay grades, I barely need to pass these in order to get the B average I need to have my credits transfer. Combine that with the said amount of prep time, I know I should be fine. Yet until I took my first exam this morning I was completely unsure of myself; in a cold sweat. I had no idea what to expect from a UK exam. It turns out that it wasn't that bad, that I knew what I needed to know, and now I'm a day closer to going home.

Ecstasy was the emotion I felt as I left Adam House this morning. The sun was bright, I was done with philosophy, and all of a sudden the bundle of pre-exam nerves had been substituted with the giddiness of a boy on the last day of school. The problem, of course, is that I have 2 exams to go. But lost in the moment, I walked away in the sunshine, and got all of the little trinkets from the tourist shops on the Royal Mile that I had wanted for so long. Then I ventured back, unsure of what would come next.

What has come next has been a whole range of things. I went from pure bliss, to nervous wreck in regard to the coming exam, to relief that they wouldn't be that bad, to frustration with other things, to boredom, to homesickness, all in the course of a few short hours. That swing basically sums up the last month. Some days I've been elated to be here. Other days my head is home in Maine and nothing can bring me back to the here and now. Others I'm completely absorbed in my work. The bottom line is that there's been too much time as of late. I'm a person who likes to stay busy, for no other reason that it keeps my mind occupied. I'm also a person of bizarre neuroses and obsessions, so needless to say, having all the free time hasn't helped. Either I was obsessed with studying or I was obsessed with working out. Either I was obsessed with all things Scotland, or I was obsessed with the thought of going home. In either case, it wasn't a pretty picture.

But now I've come to the end. 4 hours of exams is all that separates me from summer, but more importantly, it's all that separates me from home (minus the actual travel.) As friends that I've made here start to depart for home, I get the feeling that Dorothy is about to click those ruby slippers. I've been told that going home from being abroad, no matter how analogous the locations may be, is a complete trip, as if a 5 month long dream has ended abruptly. For all the talk of going home, and yearning to be in Maine again, I'm a bit nervous about what I'll find. What will have changed? What changes will people see in me that I'm not that aware about? Will people like the person I've become? What have I missed that I will have to catch up on, or what will I have missed that I will never be able to retrieve? Again, this is the time talking. If I had had my way, and had been busy all this time, I would just go home and deal with the transition once I got there. But instead, it's all contemplation before the reality actually hits.

Yes, this post may have been all over the place, but it definitely reflects my current psyche, let's hope it changes before exam time tomorrow.

An Emotional Roller Coaster

To put it lightly, these last few weeks have been hectic. The grand irony, of course, is that they've been hectic without being busy. Actually, they've been anything but. Since returning from Rome I've been doing very little. Most of my flat mates only returned a few days ago, and it wasn't until last Monday that I actually started revising for exams. At the beginning, having the place to myself, having nothing to do, and just getting to take in the experience of living in Edinburgh was fun and exhilarating. The break neck pace of the trip had left me exhausted and the unstructured time was fun and calming. But as the days wore on, and I felt no nearer to home, nor content with being where I was, the despite started to set in. Why am I still here, I would wonder. Why can't I just make time go faster and finally go home? Being an extrovert also added to the depression. I went days without talking to anyone face-to-face, something that really drains my energy and resolve. Yet I found some good things to do. I went on a glorious walk along a river in Leith; I climbed to Arthur's Seat; I went for runs through Morningside. These definitely broke up the monotony, but I still wasn't content.

Then the flat mates came back, fresh from their holidays, but in need of getting to revising to fend off the impending exams. I decided to follow suit, both because it felt like time to get going, but also because I desperately needed something to do. But this didn't do much to help. Even a week in I still feel like I have way too much time left. The material I'm covering is challenging, but not too challenging. I know that I really only need seven or eight more days to study, but the other option is to go back to doing nothing, which isn't appealing either. So it was back to longing for home--something that won't subside till I get there, no matter how busy I am. I see pictures from Short Term and want to be back at Bates. I hear news from South Portland and just want to get back to what is most familiar. Yet it's not possible--at least not for another three weeks.

With all of this going on, I've been feeling rather empty. Services at St. Giles' Cathedral--a place that I have grown to love--only dull the pain a bit. I didn't want to limp to the finish line like this. I wanted to be really sad to leave Edinburgh, not be thankful to get out. What could I do? It was at this point that my Mom came up with a great idea. "It's free," she said, "to just take your camera and document your favorite places in Edinburgh...the places that you'll miss the most when you're gone." At first I didn't like the idea. I've seen everything, I thought, why do I need to go around again. With that I wrote it off and moved on with my life. Yet after a really exhilarating workout this morning, and seeing that the day was nice, I decided to go for it. I realized that by going around town and snapping pictures of places that I had passed by, or even large landmarks that I had grown used to, I could document my love for this city. It worked.

Over three hours this afternoon I walked all over the city. To the University Campus, Grass Market, and Cowgate. To the Castle, down the embankment to Princes' Street. To St. Andrew Square, Calton Hill and Regent's Street. To Holyrood Palace, the Royal Mile and the Crags. Maybe I should have left more for another day--although I'm sure I'll see a lot of these places again before I go--the day really sparked what needed to be sparked. I realized while I walked Edinburgh's ancient streets just how much I loved this place, and therefore how much I'm going to miss it. Edinburgh brings together thousands of years of history in a way that no other city does. The old and the new are melded together brilliantly--so well at times that you can't tell the difference between walls that have been standing since the 1200s and those that were only built at the turn of the last century. It has culture and a distinct vibe which is unique. It's funky, it's hip, but it's also authentic and real. Sure, there are those cheesy tourist shops, but there are little pubs in claustrophobic closes, and on main streets that ooze culture and life. These are all of the things that I remembered on my walk. It may not make the homesickness go away, but I truly felt attached to this place again. I can truly say that I not only visited Edinburgh, I lived there. I experienced it in a way that only residents can, and for that I will always be thankful. Now it's actually time to study, get through exams, and return home. But home, as I've always said, is where you are, and right now that's Scotland's capital.

As Days Go By

Music serves as the inspiration for a lot of my thoughts. I'm not what one would call a "music geek" but there's nothing that I like more than being able to either walk somewhere beautiful or just sit and listen to my iPod for hours on end. Music brings beauty and serenity and fresh thinking--and after a grueling, yet amazing journey that's exactly what I needed.

One of my favorite songs comes from the Canadian band Carbon Leaf. The oft-repeated chorus line reads "this is my day, this is my song! I am alive what can go wrong?" The song came up as two days ago as I was walking from my flat down to Holyrood Park. The goal was to climb Arthur's Seat for the second time, the giant hill (calling it mountain might be a little too bold) which, like many other such formations in Edinburgh, is an extinct volcano. Not only do I find it hard to sit still most days--just doing nothing really bugs me--but I needed some time to reflect on the past trip, the next few weeks, and most importantly, what my life would be like when I got back to Maine. While stresses are multiple at this point--planning another trip, anticipating exams, moving houses, finding and internship, thesis, etc.--I quickly realized that what really mattered was me, not the things going on with me involved. Carbon Leaf's lyrics provided the inspiration I needed at that time. I'm alive. I'm healthy, both physically and mentally. I'm in Edinburgh. I've been successful in most of my endeavors. What else did I need?

Another inspiration came from the daily United Church of Christ devotional that I (try to) read every day. Psalm 118 states "This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!" Reflecting on this passage, Christina Villa writes, "We don't have to be glad for every day just because God made it. God made it to give us things to be glad about. But it's up to us to recognize them." This is indeed my point. Walking through the streets of Edinburgh you often look at people's expressions. Most likely, people are expressionless, sullen, mad, or determined. Yet when you see a person who's genuinely smiling; looking happy to be alive, you assume that they're either drunk, high, or mentally unstable. Why? Why do we have to be so determined or unhappy? Why is being joyful simply for being in one's own position in life something that has to be so out of the ordinary? Well as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't have to be. The next few weeks that I have here in Edinburgh are completely unstructured--the schedule determined by me and me alone. No exams to study for--that will come in good time. No appointments or lectures or anything else. So instead of being bored and upset of lack of things to do, I plan to enjoy the small things. Take today for instance. I just got back from a nice workout at the gym. I stopped by Tesco on the way home to buy eggs, bacon, and orange juice (Tropicana actually, because it was on sale). I'm going to eat this wonderful meal and then walk down to Prince's Street to enjoy the miraculous spring weather. After that, I might just sit in Prince's Street Gardens, listening to my iPod and reflecting on all the small blessings that God has graced me with. Oh, and then Barcelona v. Real Madrid is on TV tonight--might as well watch that.

To the old me, that would be a rather boring day, but can't being alive be enough? Can't the blessing of free time, money to buy quality food, and the ability to walk miles to enjoy oneself be enough to celebrate? I think it can be, and I hope that I can do my part by enjoying the small things, to bring about good change in this world. I am alive, what can go wrong? As for now, just about nothing.

Rome: Irony, Stress, Hordes of People, and Memories to Last a Lifetime

Where to begin? Obviously, due to the lack of activity over the past few days, I haven't had a chance to update the blog while I was in Rome. So, whether successful or not, I'm going to attempt to recap five ridiculous days in one blog post. Like most of my pictures for this trip--which numbered more than 1,000--my words can't really do this story justice, but they will have to suffice.

Rome was planned to be the highlight of my trip. We had intentionally planned four full days--as opposed to our customary 2 1/2--because it was agreed that Rome in general, and more importantly Rome over Easter, was something that warranted more time. What we did not expect was how tired we would be. Barcelona and Madrid drained nearly all the energy we had. This was not to say that the days did not delivered what we had expected, we had six of the most amazing days ever, in two gorgeous locations, seeing pretty much every sight we had set out to see. Yet, the combination of eight or more hours of walking, one or two meals a day, and not enough water added up to three very tired boys come April 2.

So we departed Madrid at about 5, getting to the airport in about an hour, sitting through the long check-in lines for Ryanair. Once on the plane, the tiredness seemed to not affect us at all. The constant mantra of, "guys, we're going to..." resurfaced, and we just couldn't wait to hit the ground. Without a hitch, we found our way from the airport, to the shuttle bus, to the train station, to the right metro line, and to the hostel. That's where things started to go downhill. After searching the street to find the hostel (house numbers in Rome do not alternate sides of the street) we rang the bell..."I'll be right down" said the voice. Weird, we thought, usually we can go right up. Turns out there was a "toilet explosion" in the hostel and we needed to be moved. Well great, it's 1:00 in the morning, we're tired and the guy is telling us that we can't stay where we were planning on staying. Well we get into a cab and drive for what seems like miles and miles, until we get to the hood--graffiti everywhere, creepy looking people, the whole bit. We go into an old building and walk up tons of stairs until we get to this guy's "apartment." To call it that would be being kind. There was only a fridge, no sink or stove. There was one bathroom and a bunch of bedrooms. The place reeked of cigarettes and pot. He showed us to a room that had three beds and dresser in it, no lockers. He proceeded to be "nice" and give us a 33% discount on the stay, but he didn't have change, meaning that I gave him 10 euro less than I should have. Yes, it was as sketchy and creepy as it sounds, but I was in Rome?!

For one reason or another, this experience didn't phase me as much as my two travelling buddies. Yes, I wasn't completely comfortable. Yes, this wasn't what we were expecting. Maybe it was my tiredness and willingness to accept just about anything, but I just wanted to enjoy Rome, especially on that holiest of weekends, and not worry about anything else.

Now on to the sightseeing. We mastered the public transportation in Rome very quickly. Because of our precarious location, we had to take a a streetcar to the major train station to take the Metro anywhere, but we were able to buy a unlimited travel card for 16 euro--a deal we definitely made the most out of. The first thing that struck me about Rome was how the old and the new are so seamlessly woven together. On the trip to the station, we passed under aquaducts built thousands of years ago, saw statues to past emperors, but also saw the makings of a modern city. However, Rome is definitely not the cleanest of towns. There's dirt and other not-so-pleasant stuff everywhere you walk. Graffiti pollutes most views, and you get the sense that Rome has just run out of the money it needs to keep up with the necessary upkeep. But all that aside...

The first day was Vatican day. Knowing that the museum would be closed on Sunday and Monday, we decided to brave the crowds and go to the Musei Vaticani to see what the Catholics had to show up. Now about the crowds...Saturday wasn't that bad, but as the weekend progressed Rome became more and more like Disney World. Not only were the lines beyond belief, but the crowds spread to the Metro, to the restaurants, to everything. We agreed early on that while Rome was amazing to see, it was more like a contest to see to who could get to every sight first--making the experience more of checking things off the list than getting to stop and savor what it was that you were seeing. But back to the Museum...

After waiting for a good two hours, we finally made it in, and boy did it live up to expectations. The Vatican Museum is not like any other museums that you'd ever see. It's a series of rooms all exquisetly painted and decorated, from floor to ceiling, which house some of the world's greatest pieces of religious art. From Rafael's famous painting of Aristotle and the forum to amazing depictions of Jesus and the entire Bible, to busts and statues of every Pope.

Of course the crown jewel of the collection is the Sistene Chapel. Being the Pope's private chapel, it's understandable why the guards make sure--rather unsuccessfully so I may add--that people don't take pictures, videos, or speak much at all. Even so, the room is magnificent, and was something that we stopped and stared at for a good 20 minutes. Michaelangelo definitely did a good job.

As good as start as Saturday proved to be, Sunday outdid it 20 to 1, and easily was the best day of the entire trip. It was Easter and was a day that I was both looking forward to and dreading at the same time. Being a devout Christian, it's the holiest day of the year. The end of Lent and the marking of the miraculous resurrection of Jesus, as well as the recognition of the potential for rebirth. Because of this, being in Rome made the day special automatically. Despite my not being Catholic, Rome is definitely a holy city, and whether or not you agree with what the Catholic church stands for, there is a divine power in its buildings and monuments, but more importantly there is power in the hundreds of thousands of people that flock to Rome to share in the celebration. That was the joy of being in Rome for Easter. The dread was having to be away from family. Being a very family centered holiday it seemed like not being with mine would severely detract from the situation, but I wasn't completely right on that.

I had wanted to go to Mass on Easter morning, but because we were situated in the ghetto, and going to church would mean getting up at an amazingly early hour and going to a church where I would not feel at home did not seem like a fair tradeoff. So instead we got up a bit later and made it to the Pantheon, because it was closing at 1PM that Easter Sunday. Like many other attactions, the Pantheon was packed to the gills with tourists, but was definitely worth the wait and the time. While we only spent a couple minutes in there, it was worth it to see such an ancient and beautiful building, not to mention something that I had made a sand and glue model of for a 9th grade history project.

But then we went to St. Peter's Basilica. It had apparently been the wish of both Jonathan and Cliff that we do this, so naturally I concurred.

Words cannot describe the emotions of those hours. First it was the train ride, cars packed with pilgrims speaking every language imaginable. Then it was waiting in a line which stretched the full circumference of the Piazza San Pietro at least once, seeing where the Pope had said mass only a few short hours before. Then it was walking up the steps and into the cavernous sanctuary. At that moment emotion gripped me. I don't know whether it was more the lack of food, water and sleep, or the tiredness of my legs, but I felt carried away to a more spiritual and holy place. We walked slowly around the storied church, where I touched holy relics, saw the famed Pieta, and was able to pray along side hundreds of other Christians. No, it was not my tradition, but feeling the history and the sacredness of the place blessed my Easter in ways that words cannot describe.

Oh and then we went inside and toured the Colosseum...no big deal. That building is also a wonder and a marvel, of a much different sort of course. I had almost thought that the 12 euro entrance fee wasn't worth it, but I was completely wrong. Like the Camp Nou, we just took our time and walked around its massive interior, marveling at the architecture and the history...quite an experience.

Then the last two days were all about seeing the ancient Roman sites. From the Forum, to all the archaelogical excavation on Palatine Hill, to the hundreds of blocks of granite and marble strewn about the city. Again, words can't really describe all of that. Being the brother of someone who as a PhD in this kind of thing, and being someone who grew up soaking in every possible detail about the ancient world, getting to see these things was beyond amazing. However, after a while we found that it all bascially looked the same (you should see the hundreds of pictures that I have of such things) and that our fatigue outweighed our need to go on.

Lastly, a note about the food in Rome...unbelievable. I don't think that I can eat a pizza or pasta for some time, so I can let my tastebuds recover. Because of the lack of hostel advice, we had to go by the guidebook and ended up eating at four restaurants over the course of the four days. The first was dal Papa, a lovely little sandwich shop right outside the Vatican. Good sandwiches are hard to come by in Rome, especially because all of the tourist sites are dominated by these carts which sell the same premade, mass manufactured food at riculous prices. dar Papa was quite the opposite. For 4 euro I bough the San Proschutio, a sandwich made on a warm, fresh piece of bread with fresh sliced Parma ham, buffola mozzerlla cheese which the owner told me was brought in fresh and still warm twice a week, and the freshest lettuce and tomato ever. Bottom line, best sandwich I'd ever tasted, even better than those of Bo de B in Barca. My tastebuds were so happy that we came back again for a second round yesterday.

Then there was Luzzi's a popular restaurant right near the Colosseum...yes, we were able to walk past the Colosseum to get to dinner, a fact that we were always amazed at. During two nights there I got two pasta dishes that would blow anyone's mind. The pasta was fresh and amazingly prepared, the price (5,50) was unbelievable, and the atmosphere was very very Italian, making for an amazing meal. Oh, and they also charged 4 euro for a liter of Italian wine...enough said.

And finally, everyone's favorite, Dar Poeta. Tucked into a tiny side alley in a gorgeous Tiber-side neighborhood, this place was something that we found in the guidebook, but which took us nearly an hour to find. It was initially the capstone to our Easter Sunday travels, but was so good that Jonathan and I decided to make it our last meal in Italy. It only serves pizza, but the pizza aint your farm variety Pizza Hut pizza, this stuff just makes you want more and more, and shames any other pizza that I've ever had--condolences to Flatbread, Ricetta's, SoPoHoPo and many others. I ordered the Vicoletto, which is pesto with cherry tomatoes and sliced roasted potatoes. It was unreal. I can only imagine what the thing would cost in the US (it only cost me 7 euro). The flavors exploded in your mouth, the freshness blew you away, and you had to eat slowly in order to savor it all. I can only wish that I can have it again some day.

Oh, and gelatto is to die for. Yes, to put it crudely it's Italian ice cream, but it's so much more. The fruit flavors taste hand picked, the chocolates are so rich that you think that that's just straight chocolate with no filler--maybe so--and the best part is that it's relatively cheap and you can get two or three flavors per serving. That was desert every day.

So that's Rome. As I said initially, this is a very brief and rough rendering of my days there. They were hectic, they were stressful, but they were still some of the best days of my life. I am truly a blessed person to have been able to experience all of this. For that I am truly thankful.