The sandy, charcoal-grey coloured bread was not what it appeared to be. Far from dry and crunchy, it was warm and soft, fresh and delicious. Harsh and I were back breakfasting at Mato, and my salmon sandwich was even tastier than yesterday’s salami. Harsh shared his doughnut with me, a large surgery ring, two halves cemented together with creamy pistachio paste.
We finished our cappuccinos and got the filthy metro to the much cleaner Vatican City. The sun was out in force and attacked my eyes; I was squinting stupidly at everything. Two splendid fountains sprayed crystal water, and between them stood a surprisingly ugly Christmas tree. Upon entering St. Peter’s Basilica however, all thoughts of the ugly Christmas tree evaporated as I was greeted by an onslaught of majesty. Domed ceilings, embroidered with gold and dashes of blue paint stretched out above us like an intricate patterned carpet. You had to crane your neck to take it all in – but even then, it was an impossible task. Statues, black and bronze, others grey and pointing, peered down at us, some with their arms open wide, staring upwards, bearing crosses or books or widespread wings. And Latin. Latin everywhere.
Varnished confession boxes and countless candles burning in bronze teapot-shaped holsters, shining gold in the flare of their flame, heralded the staircase to St. Peter’s tomb. Everywhere too were paintings of babies and angels, and flying baby angels.
A woman stood up from her pew making the sign of the cross, and dipped her hand not in holy water, but hand sanitiser, before sweeping away into the shadows.
When Harsh and I finally left St. Peter’s Basilica, I felt I had seen the best and most beautiful thing in Rome so far. It made the Colosseum look like – well, exactly what it is – a pile of crumbling stone. The whole of Vatican City – from the fountains to the statues manning the walls and pillars – was truly splendid.
We walked through street markets and along the river Tiber. We stopped at a café and bought fat sandwiches when we were too hungry to scout a decent restaurant. And eventually, after Harsh had bought all the scarfs and chocolates and key-rings he could, we got the metro back to the Mosaic Hostel.
I collected my bag and sat with Harsh a while. It was a shame to be leaving the Mosaic Hostel so soon, and I cursed myself for having only booked two nights. I could have spent a whole week there. I told Harsh I’ll message him when I get to India next year. We hugged goodbye and I began my journey to the next hostel.
I wanted to buy groceries from a supermarket, make a big pasta supper in the kitchen of my new hostel. Get a bottle of wine too. But I quickly realized I was being far too romantic. My new hostel would be no place for dining.
My walk brought me to the other side of Termini station, where bars and shops gave way to dilapidated barren roads and lonesome hotels. Graffiti grew, wrapping itself around every square inch of building and brick work. I began to feel a chill.
Outside my new accommodation I rang the bell. No voice sounded from the speaker. No one questioned who I was. The door buzzed and I let myself in. The place I now find myself in is both miserable and friendly at the same time. My room was nicer than I’d imagined. The floor and blankets on the bed had similar patterns and lent it a peculiar antique feel. The beds were creaky as hell and a far cry from comfortable, but I couldn’t give a damn about that. When I went to the bathroom I almost choked to death. The stench of cigarette smoke was overpowering. There was no soap to be seen. The kitchen was also vile. It’s okay, I kept telling myself. It’s only two nights. It didn’t help however, when I saw this sign next to the door.
I went to get some hand sanitiser and supper: A spinach sandwich and some nuts. I felt proud of myself for having settled for so humble a meal.
When I returned to the shithole, I found that my room had completely filled up with all six beds now occupied. The guy sleeping above me was from Kazakhstan. He told me his name was Zhumakhan which I could barely pronounce. He seemed cautious, but had lots of questions for me. All I had wanted to do was relax by myself and do some writing, but talking to him quickly became interesting. His English was decent. He told me about the lakes and rivers and people of his country, how I would be welcomed there if I decided to go; how I should definitely decide to go. He wanted to know what London was like. Is it easy to get a job there? Are the people friendly? My home culture began to feel pretty frosty and lame in comparison to the friendly, hospitable nation of Kazakhstan. He told me how to say hello in his language. And goodbye and thank you. Then he took my number for when I arrive in Kazakhstan, because it’s definitely happening now… apparently.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do tomorrow. The idea was to laze about at the hostel, but after seeing this place, I’m not spending any more time here than necessary. I can’t even find any plug sockets to charge my phone or laptop. R.I.P.
