dAs the United States postal service moves downward in the ranks due to the rise of technology, and more specifically e-mailing and texting, my Grandmother Joan has taken it upon herself to single handedly preserve it.
Consequently, I usually receive a letter per week regardless if I am at school in Hartford or down the street from her at home. So, it was of course my mission to do her the honor of sending her my first postcard from Rome.
I soon learned that Italy's postal service has two mediums for sending gifts, postcards, and packages. You may use the more generic Italian service, or the postal service of the Vatican.
Due to the fact that my Grandmother is not only a devote letter sender, but also a devout Catholic, I opted for the Vatican postal service, and thus, came my first trip to Piazza San Pietro.
Marjorie and Holden also hoped to send postcards home so the two of them joined me on my journey to the sovereign state.
We were told that the Vatican was within walking distance, but our sore feet and overstimulated brains told us otherwise. So, we opted for the Metro.
The Metro was rather simplistic, but especially busy and sweaty. But, despite the perspiring people enclosing around us, luckily, I did not feel as threatened or as vulnerable as we were told we may feel. The two separate routes, plus the one switch from the B line to the A line took about fifteen minutes.
We wandered aimlessly around the city for only a few minutes before discovering what we had came to see. It was was magnificent. I felt a little like Julia Roberts in the movie "Eat, Pray, Love", actually. It was the first time in Italy where I felt everything slow down a bit, and while I could certainly be much more diligent about my church attendance, I felt at home in a very strange way. This is the sacred place that I was supposed to have learned to appreciate throughout the tortuous--I mean, lovely, long years of CCD class. And at last, I was overwhelmed with appreciation. Despite being gigantic in size, and swarmed with tourists, there was a sense of calm that you don't exactly feel while being pushed and shoved along the narrow walkways inside the Colosseum. We actually sat a while, just looking and feeling whatever it was that we were feeling at the time. I remember wishing that my Grandmother Quigley was there beside me. I know she would have just loved it.
So, instead, I moseyed on over to the post office, picked out my hilarious postcard depicting Papa Francesco signaling a "thumbs up", purchased my obnoxiously expensive stamps, and dropped it into the adorable yellow mailbox. Soon enough it would be arriving at 14 Grant Road for the one and only Joan Quigley--most likely to be shared with Father Steel, the entire congregation at Star of the Sea Church, the mailman, and really anyone who would stop and listen.
Consequently, I usually receive a letter per week regardless if I am at school in Hartford or down the street from her at home. So, it was of course my mission to do her the honor of sending her my first postcard from Rome.
I soon learned that Italy's postal service has two mediums for sending gifts, postcards, and packages. You may use the more generic Italian service, or the postal service of the Vatican.
Due to the fact that my Grandmother is not only a devote letter sender, but also a devout Catholic, I opted for the Vatican postal service, and thus, came my first trip to Piazza San Pietro.
Marjorie and Holden also hoped to send postcards home so the two of them joined me on my journey to the sovereign state.
We were told that the Vatican was within walking distance, but our sore feet and overstimulated brains told us otherwise. So, we opted for the Metro.
The Metro was rather simplistic, but especially busy and sweaty. But, despite the perspiring people enclosing around us, luckily, I did not feel as threatened or as vulnerable as we were told we may feel. The two separate routes, plus the one switch from the B line to the A line took about fifteen minutes.
We wandered aimlessly around the city for only a few minutes before discovering what we had came to see. It was was magnificent. I felt a little like Julia Roberts in the movie "Eat, Pray, Love", actually. It was the first time in Italy where I felt everything slow down a bit, and while I could certainly be much more diligent about my church attendance, I felt at home in a very strange way. This is the sacred place that I was supposed to have learned to appreciate throughout the tortuous--I mean, lovely, long years of CCD class. And at last, I was overwhelmed with appreciation. Despite being gigantic in size, and swarmed with tourists, there was a sense of calm that you don't exactly feel while being pushed and shoved along the narrow walkways inside the Colosseum. We actually sat a while, just looking and feeling whatever it was that we were feeling at the time. I remember wishing that my Grandmother Quigley was there beside me. I know she would have just loved it.
So, instead, I moseyed on over to the post office, picked out my hilarious postcard depicting Papa Francesco signaling a "thumbs up", purchased my obnoxiously expensive stamps, and dropped it into the adorable yellow mailbox. Soon enough it would be arriving at 14 Grant Road for the one and only Joan Quigley--most likely to be shared with Father Steel, the entire congregation at Star of the Sea Church, the mailman, and really anyone who would stop and listen.