At St. Peter's: Awe and Unease

 After their “wandering tour” of Rome on their first day, Tom and Jim decided to spend their second day touring a site the two Catholics from northern Ohio had heard about all their lives: St. Peter’s Basilica, the spiritual and literal heart of Roman Catholicism.

After sixteen years of Catholic education, the boys were primed for this visit. As they neared, they thought of the names so familiar through school, Sunday mass, and their own observant Catholic families: John XXIII, Paul VI, John Paul I. The Roman numerals reinforced the weight of centuries behind them or, in John Paul’s sad case, a spark of hope for the future.

Unlike the previous day’s sightseeing route that easily took in the Forum, Pantheon, Colosseum, Altar of Nations, and the Spanish Steps (not to mention the obligatory coin toss into Trevi), the path to St. Peter’s wasn’t entirely straightforward, requiring numerous stops, turns, and backtracking a time or two as Tom consulted his ever-present map. His navigational skills proved effective, though, when they stepped onto the Via della Conciliazione,

“There it is,” Tom called out, like a sailor spotting land after days adrift.

St. Peter’s rose before them like a travertine mountain.

“Mammoth,” Tom said, awestruck. He consulted his Let’s Go Europe and pointed out Bernini’s colonnade, the columns, the massive semi-circle of 284 columns, topped with statues of saints, built in the 17^th century. As with the Parthenon they had visited days before, the colonnade offers an optical illusion, appearing as a single row of columns when viewed from a specific point. The semi-circle surrounding the piazza is meant to symbolize the embracing arms of the Church.

On that day, the statued saints were on their side, for the crowds were light and the boys entered the basilica without having to wait in a line.

They stepped into another world and were immediately awestruck at the immensity of… well, everything: the many marble chapels, gilded altars, soaring domes, and the tombs of Popes stretching back centuries. Even for two lifelong Catholics, the sheer scale of it all felt overwhelming.

For Tom, the grandeur was inspiring. But Jim had a different reaction. As when he took in the cathedral at Cologne, he couldn’t help thinking of the money needed to construct such a beautiful building. As he walked around the basilica, Jim thought St. Peter’s made Cologne, as beautiful as it is, look bargain basement. Everywhere he looked, the wealth it all represented was staggering.

“Not sure this is what Jesus had in mind,” he mumbled.

It wasn’t a crisis of faith—not yet—but it was the first serious crack in his sense of belonging to the institution he’d grown up in. Yes, the Church did tremendous good in the world. He knew that. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that selling even a fraction of the treasures in St. Peter’s could feed a nation.

For Tom, the most powerful moment was not in the gilded chapels but in the quiet, restrained presence of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Mary cradling the body of Christ. The folds of her robe, the tenderness in her expression. The way Michelangelo coaxed emotion out of stone. For Tom, this sculpture represented the essential heart of his faith.

After visiting the Papal Altar, located directly above the tomb of St. Peter and directly beneath  Bernini’s huge bronze canopy—the baldacchino—Tom and Jim climbed the long stairway up to the cupola, pausing to catch their breath and admire the enormous statues along the rooftop. At the top, the view opened in every direction: domes, rooftops, ancient ruins, and the expansive sprawl of Rome. They both agreed it was exhilarating.

Back inside, they toured the Vatican Museum. The collections were staggering: tapestries, maps, sculptures, gifts from emperors, entire hallways of works that would have been priceless even in the ancient world. They paused longest at Raphael’s “School of Athens,” trying in vain to identify all the philosophers and mathematicians. They stopped again before a painting of Constantine’s vision before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, the moment that paved the way for Christianity to become the religion of the Empire.

After what felt like miles, they reached the Sistine Chapel.

Tom had expected just a portion of the ceiling to be painted. Instead, the entire ceiling was alive with Michelangelo’s frescos: Creation, temptation, judgment, prophets, and saints unfolding in every direction. He felt dwarfed by the scale and deeply moved by the artistry. For Jim, the chapel’s significance as the site where popes were elected, and the beauty of Michelangelo’s art, was astonishing, almost overpowering. But it didn’t erase the questions rising inside him.

The boys walked out of the Vatican changed in different ways. Tom felt renewed, as though the art and the history had awakened something hopeful in him. Rome had not disappointed. Jim, walking beside him, felt himself taking a step back from the institution that had always been part of his identity. It left him feeling unsettled.

Nevertheless, as they left St. Peter’s Square and crossed back into Rome proper, both Jim and Tom felt they had visited one of Europe’s great historical centers—one that mattered regardless of a person’s religion, politics, or beliefs.

And then, reality returned.

As they neared the Tiber, chants echoed through the streets. Soon, they saw marchers and red, hammer-and-sickle flags. A communist demonstration! For two Americans born during the McCarthy years and raised during the Cold War and Domino Theory, this was a bit unnerving. Commies! The marchers grew louder, in formation, singing, carrying banners, and filling the avenues with energy.

Far from chaotic, the march was remarkably organized and peaceful. Tom and Jim were impressed—not just by the scale of the demonstration but by the discipline and unity of the marchers. In mere minutes, they had traversed from the quiet epicenter of spirituality into the loud cacophony of a communist demonstration.

It was another "Not in Ohio Anymore" moment.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on St. Peter's Basilica in Rome.

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Back to Italy: Pompei and Rome Day 1

 After the bustling energy of Athens, Tom and Jim set their sights on a place of striking contrast—the white-washed stucco and blue-tiled rooftops of a Greek island then in vogue with backpackers, thanks to its ferry link between Athens and Italy: Corfu. But on the day of departure, bad weather forced all ferries to cancel. Their island escape would have to wait.

So, it was back to Brindisi and onto an overnight train across Italy to another “must-see” destination for travelers of the 1970s—Pompeii.

Neither of them really knew what to expect. What they discovered was astonishing: an entire city once buried beneath volcanic ash since the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD. The most haunting sights were the plaster casts of human figures—men, women, and children frozen in their final, desperate moments. With just a bit of imagination, you could almost hear life returning to those streets: merchants calling out their wares, couples flirting in the marketplace, cheers rising from the athletic fields, and laughter spilling out of the taverns.

Pompeii left them quiet and thoughtful. Despite the trip’s brisk pace, moments like this—combined with the people, trains, postcards, and even the daily frugality—made it all deeply rewarding. Their finances were still solid, too. After a week, each had about $500 left, having spent only $53, or roughly $7.50 a day.

Next came the grand stage of Europe: Rome.

One of the first stops was the American Express office, where Tom expected to find a package containing his replacement glasses, which he had lost in the canals of Venice. The glasses weren’t there, but he was delighted to find letters from home: one from his mother, one from “the Duck,” and one from his girlfriend, Beth. They all mentioned that no one could truly see Roma the Magnificent in just two or three days. And as soon as the boys unfolded the map, they saw why—Rome was enormous.

Their lodging turned out to be one of the trip’s great surprises. Instead of checking into a busy youth hostel, they followed a tip from Tom’s brother, BJ, who had stayed with the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales years earlier, the same order of priests who had taught them in high school. Tom had written ahead, and when they knocked on the door at 33 Via Dandolo, Father George Salzman welcomed them warmly.

The rooms were simple but felt luxurious—each with a writing desk, a comfortable bed, and blessed quiet. After weeks of shared bunks and noisy dorms, this was a gift. They could write in their journals, wander freely, and simply rest. Father Salzman would later reappear in Tom’s life thirty-seven years later, officiating his wedding.

Their first day exploring Rome began in the Campidoglio, one of the most elegant city squares ever designed, and from there they descended into the ruins of the Roman Forum. Standing at the spot where Julius Caesar was stabbed, it wasn’t hard to imagine the voices of ancient Rome—politicians debating, philosophers arguing, merchants bargaining, crowds gossiping about the latest intrigue.

They continued on to the Arch of Titus, gazed across to the Palatine Hill, and entered the Colosseum—its tunnels, chambers, and tiers still echoing faintly with the roar of crowds. 

From there, they wandered through the city on foot, finding that all the great monuments seemed connected by winding pedestrian lanes.

They stopped at the Spanish Steps, tossed coins over their shoulders into the Trevi Fountain, and marveled at the Pantheon, where sunlight streamed through the single round opening in its dome. Their walk ended at Piazza Navona, with its fountains representing the great rivers of the world.

Every site felt alive and surprisingly well preserved. The scale and beauty of Rome—its politics, religion, art, entertainment, and everyday life—left them humbled and amazed. And what struck them most was how naturally the city seemed to unfold. Every landmark was within walking distance, every turn led to another discovery. For Tom, compared to London or Paris, Rome felt more open, more human, more inviting. It was, and still is, one of the most walkable cities in Europe—made to be explored on foot, step by step, just as the ancients did.

It may have been all that walking that to led to only their second uncomfortable situation. At a restaurant that night, Tom was enthusiastically making suggestions on what to see and do the next day. This was momentarily interrupted when Tom stopped Jim from putting a forkful of salad in his mouth. At the end of the fork was a giant, black fly. Jim complained to the waiter but the waiter shrugged his shoulders, twittered his fingers about his head to suggest the flight of a fly, and walked away. Jim’s appetite was now as dead as the fly on the fork.

“So what do you think, Doc?” Tom asked after he outlined the next day.

“Sounds good,” Jim said, taking a sip of his beer.

“No opinion? You just sit there, staring off into space.”

“We’ve been talking all day,” Jim said. “Actually, you’ve been talking all day, reading from that [expletive deleted] tour book.”

Tom ignored the jab. “Even when we split for the day, you don’t say much about where you went or what you saw. You’re always inside your head somewhere.”

“Not true,” Jim said. “I just don’t go into excruciating detail about where I went and what I saw.”

But it was true. They were nearing the end of their Eurail pass and potentially the end of the entire adventure. The uncertainty of what was ahead weighed heavily on Jim’s mind.

And so the back-and-forth went on for a few more rounds, until one of them said something that made the other laugh.

They ordered another beer and discussed plans for the next day.

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That was "Then." Click on the video below for Tom and Jim's "Now" reflections on Pompei and their first day in Rome.

Comments or feedback? We'd love to hear from you!