From the end of the line in St. Peter's Square to the lantern at the top of the dome took two-and-a-half hours, and the floor of the cathedral swarmed with tour groups and screaming children and couples taking not-romantic photos of themselves embracing in front of the bone chips of saints, and that's when I started to play the game.
Every time I saw people trying to take a picture, I walked right in front of them.
I am in the vacation photos of approximately 8 different people from all around the world. A little piece of grumpy Laura spread out across the globe.
So I quit, then. I quit tourist attractions. And art. And churches, especially churches. I had been growing weary for a while -- I didn't even go to the Duco's palace in Venice, a museum that several people have insisted to me is their favorite in the world. But I'm really done now. Really. Heavy as the weight of the pillars of that cathedral, miles wide, it seemed, was my mood yesterday. All the granite of history bearing down on my head. A million statutes of saints and the Pope at the window.
So today we took the bus to nowhere and walked until we found a tiny place that smelled good and we ordered heaping plates of bruchetta and the cheapest wine on the menu and got messy and talked about the election. And people-watched. And looked at street art. And had gelato. And sat on the rim of the Circus Maximus and watched people jog and chase their dogs around and embrace on beach blankets.
The weather is warm. It was the first day for dresses. I feel let out of the cage, like Real Laura is back. I sense summer coming.