Three Nights in Rome

There is a kind of pain that arrives from nowhere. You walk in the streets of an unfamiliar city, and suddenly the way a tall pine tree holds its rebellious crown against the sky brings you close to tears. You know it must have triggered something, a distant memory, but you have no idea what it is, and you don’t have time to get lost in your thoughts or in the narrow alleyways of this infinite city. So you go back to your map, restudy the stubborn streets, attempting to restore your sense of direction. And then there is another kind of pain, a simpler one, the one you recognise the instant it happens, knowing precisely why it hurts. It was one of those days. First, the line of tall pine trees on my way, as I was trying to navigate the streets of central Rome towards Vatican City. And then, another pain.



Maybe I was overwhelmed by the depth of the colours on the surrounding walls, the images floating around and above me, the events taking place on the ceiling. Whatever it was, I could feel it the moment it happened: the jolt in my neck as I twisted my body into a rather unnatural position, the nerves pulsing down my spine, thrumming with ache. There I was, standing in the middle of the Sistine Chapel, looking up towards the Creation of Adam, when I suddenly strained my back.

I could feel the pain intensifying, but I wanted to keep looking up, just for a few more minutes. I wanted to study ...