St Peter's (Not St Paul's)

24 August 2012

I should probably explain: having lived in London for two years, I'd come to refer to the big sainty church in the city as St Paul's. After all, in London, that's what the big church was... until we got to Rome. Unfortunately by then habit had set in, and my brain obviously didn't think it a life or death situation that needed rectifying.

Truthfully, St Peter, St Paul: in my eyes they were pretty much one and the same; two early followers of Jesus who set about establishing Christianity and the Catholic church/Doctrine as we know it. And they both ended up with big swanky churches.

Dressed at our most modest (shoulders and knees covered), Mum and I made our way to that church for a leisurely wander with the occasional comment... or two.

For popular attractions where there is a known problem of lengthy queues, we make a point of getting there nice and early so that regardless we can walk straight through. On this particular day there appeared to be little need for our forethought as the square was empty and winding queue lines completely empty.

Passing the very welcoming St Peter. Surprising really given the Catholic church doesn't believe they'll let in any old riffraff, unless he's since become aware of the pagan tourists wandering through his holy house in idle curiosity. 

Michelangelo's Pieta

I was collecting religious folks, particularly the camera-wielding variety, but missed the ultimate Charles Addams shot as none of them wandered into the sunbeam. As I was getting slightly excited at the sight of the delightful dears, I think Mum felt it was for the best. 

Charles Addams, in The New Yorker, 10 August 1940

Though you can't see it (the tourist/pilgrim is standing in the way) St Peter has lost his toes (and soon his foot) due to the good luck that oozes out of it thereby encouraging people to rub it.

All in all, there seems to be a plethora of monuments to important Catholics scattered throughout. In addition to more than enough Popes, each one seemingly vying for a bigger and 'better' monument, there are also a number of monuments to a number of monarchs who either lost of abdicated their thrones as a result of their religious convictions. 

Monument to Maria Clementina Sobieska, wife of the 'Old Pretender' to the English throne.

Monument to Queen Christina of Sweden

Monument to the Royal Stuarts (the Old Pretender and his two sons)

Monument to Pope Innocent XII

His Holiness of the Teacups

His Holiness of the Bees (not related to Napoleon
and his bees).

Monument to Pope Alexander VIII...

... complete with an hourglass-wielding Death.

Monument to Pope John XXIII(?)

Monument to Pope Clement XI

Growing up, my sister and I had our favourite Greek goddesses.
Mine was Artemis, hers was Athena. So for her now, Athena
 (or her illegitimate half sister Roma). And a big pussy cat.

An Altar inlaid with mosaics

A red porphyry sarcophagus of Probus, the 4th century Prefect of Rome, surmounted by the lid
 of the sarcophagus of Hadrian to which an ornament of the Lamb of God has been added.

Tis an elephant! (though it does look to have been photoshopped
 in accordance with the current ideas of feminine beauty)

Me and my love of gargoyles/grotesques. Aren't they beautiful!

It took us a while to notice, but every fresco, every painting within St Peter's is no longer the original, but has been replaced by a perfectly matched and crafted mosaic. The reason for this is that for the purposes of preservation the paintings need a constant temperature and humidity. With so many people coming through the doors of St Peter's this is impossible to attain. However as these are each and every one an integral part of the atmosphere and decoration of the place they have been substituted with meticulously detailed glass mosaics that will survive the ravages of time and tourist.

The view of one of the transepts from the base of the dome

Having satisfied our thirst for the inside we continued to climb upwards, spiralling towards the top of the cupola where there were to be had unparalleled views across Rome and the Vatican gardens.

Gong Xi Fai Cai

Growing up in a multicultural city, I've always enjoyed Chinese New Year; watching the lion dancing through the street, blessing each shop and restaurant. It is not a part of my family culture but it is for some friends and so for a couple of the years we were fortunate enough to get red packets.  That is now years ago, and what has become more memorable are the delectable cakes and biscuits to which we were always treated.

Chinese New Year crept up upon me this year. In fact, Chinese New Year crept up upon me last year too. The Year of the Snake followed by Year of the Horse. Last year I was distracted by a friend's surprise birthday which she kept trying to organise herself - problematic episode if ever I saw one. This year the distraction was my uncle's birthday. But in the midst of it, I remembered with fondness welcoming in the Year of the Dragon in London's China Town.

Australia Day

I remember explaining the term 'bogan' to a Greek friend, phrasing it beautifully to coincide with his bronzed skin, sunnies, wifebeater, boardshorts and thongs. (Un)fortunately he was too cultured to fit the definition more than outwardly. 

This year I explained the term again. This time to a lovely American who was joining us on our venture to the South Perth foreshore to watch the Australia Day fireworks. It was a term I felt she needed to know for it defined the type of person she might expect to see during the course of the evening. This was particularly the case as the case of a serious glassing on the South Perth foreshore was still a vivid memory even if it had happened a few years ago now.

When we arrived, I'll admit I was pleasantly surprised; the area was very family friendly and filled with groups more than happy to curl up on a picnic rug and wait for the sun to die and the light show to begin. Perhaps it was being away for several years. Perhaps it was lowering expectations. I don't know. 

Unfortunately as the sky blackened and I hoped to have my assumptions proved wrong, people with a very unAustralian spirit proved my expectations to be all too appropriate. Groups of people would arrive at the last minute and stand before you, looking towards the river wondering which inch of grass they could squeeze their arse onto. Or they would kneel on the footpath, in front of a family of small kids, their heads popping up right into the midst of the exploding fireworks. 

One girl (hopefully subsequently named and shamed on Facebook) arrived late and parked herself at the very front before loudly commenting that the people behind her (people who had arrived at least five hours earlier) were going to be disappointed when she stood up to take photos (not that she even knew how to operate her camera). And it wasn't as though she needed to extend her tripod and stand up as the fireworks always explore above us allowing you to sit cross legged on the grass and tilt the whole contraption back to point upwards towards the stars. 

I wouldn't mind so much if this behaviour were typical of new Australians; ones who didn't as yet know the typical Australia Day customs and where they were expected to look (for fireworks here are different to the ones overseas), people who just needed a friendly word to help them assimilate with with new countrymen. Unfortunately I don't find this to be the case. Those who were the worst offenders were young, selfish and identifiably Australian. 

If only they weren't, for I personally don't want to be associated with such behaviour... particularly when it ruins Australia Day for others. 

I Love London in the Springtime

Only the other day, I was discussing with a friend the beauty of Europe in the Spring. She'd never seen it.
With Europe an 18 hour flight away (from the near side of Australia), and flights being of a significant cost, she'd always visited during our summer, when Uni and school were out for two or three months, allowing for sufficient time to experience a chunk of any planned route. Travelling in their winter also meant cheaper accommodation, fewer tourists and for West Australians, unfamiliar weather thrown into the mix.

What it did mean though is that you missed the transformation of Europe. The sudden change from grey and miserable to the brightest, happiest colours imaginable. And this is just London.

Kensington Palace:
Visiting in early spring, I have more photos of this small sunken garden than I do of the Palace, which says a lot. It was just a pity that this was cordoned off from public access as it looked to be the perfect retreat.

Scouring for Kitchens

While I love visiting historic houses, there are a couple of rooms that always draw me in more than the others. While the bedrooms are beautiful, the sitting rooms sumptuous and the ballrooms breathtaking, it is the kitchen and the library that provide the most delight.

With regards the kitchen, I'm not sure if its because it is a room I spend so much of the free time in, thereby combining my love of cooking with my love of the past, or because it is one of the essential rooms that shows at the inner workings of the house or castle.

Unfortunately in many houses the kitchens have either been commandeered by the attached cafe and therefore have been modernised to necessary levels of safety and efficiency (Strawberry Hill, Musee Jacquemart Andre...), or are still in use by the current resident (this accounts for the absence of the kitchens of Kensington Palace, Buckingham Palace, Windsor Castle...). This means the pickings are limited, but there are still some beauties out there, and it makes stumbling upon them even more exciting.

The first place I remember displaying such a fascination with the kitchen was on a tour of France with my mother, where we visited the Chateau of Chenonceau. Constructed as a bridge over the river Cher, the kitchen was secreted away almost at the water level, built into the supports of the bridge.

Chateau de Chenonceau, France

Studying Libraries

While I love visiting historic houses, there are a couple of rooms that always draw me in more than the others. While the bedrooms are beautiful, the sitting rooms sumptuous and the ballrooms breathtaking, it is the kitchen and the library that provide the most delight.

With the library, I'm not sure if it's because I love reading or because I have quite literally grown up surrounded by books. The shelves in my bedroom are overflowing, the wall above the four metre long desk in the family room, covered to the ceiling, and two of the walls of the lounge room are covered from floor to ceiling. And that's not to mention the boxes of books waiting for a space of their own.

Wandering around old houses/palaces it's delightful to see; not just the number of old books, but also the rooms in which one hopes the owners would to curl up on a sofa and devour each book, cover to cover.

Dating from a time when personal libraries were a status symbol, just how many of these rooms were designed with something more intellectual in mind?
How many  of these books were part of a personal collection, hand picked over the years as opposed to ordered by the yard when the room was being designed?
Has the room been adapted for the purpose, or are the books just a part of the decor; a vain attempt to make a foppish man look more intelligent than he might otherwise be?

How many rooms would I happily transpose into my own home, the perfect junction of my love of history and knowledge?