Roma
It was a long hot summer in Europe during 2005. There was a heatwave – a canicule in France – as the meteo showed a huge orange/red cloud hanging over most of the country night after night with no respite in sight. Temperatures never dropped below 25 degrees at night and hovered in the 40s during the day, and thousands of people died from dehydration. Those who could, including me, stayed close to the lake under the shade of trees only returning home to hot apartments after sunset.
All the windows were open in my third-floor loft apartment and as the slightly cooler air would filter in from the lake and begin to circulate, I would play my piano. The music flowed softly out across the rooftops and into open windows like a healing balm for the flushed and flustered inhabitants of the quartier. I had been asked to keep my windows open when I played; it was calming, helped frayed nerves and eased them into fitful sleep. I could not sleep much during this time and often drifted across to the piano late at night and allowed the music to flow as it chose.
I made no plans to travel anywhere apart from a couple of work trips to Central Europe, which was surprisingly cooler than the heatwave which stuck over France. In early September, however, there was a change. Beth’s daughter cancelled a family weekend trip to Rome, having found out she was pregnant, and Beth suggested I went instead. A few days before our departure, Beth was wracked with coughing. I felt we should cancel, but she was adamant. We had to go, I had to go, and she had to accompany me.
An extraordinary amethyst crystal pendulum had been brought to her from a healer in Brazil known as John of God (Juao de Brezil), and she was in communication with this crystal about the trip and other important events at the time. Very clear messages were being transmitted and received. She did not know why exactly, but we had to go to Rome. I had to go to Rome. No question about it.
Our EasyJet flight from Geneva was booked for Friday evening and we checked in after a light meal. This was the weekend of September 11, with the disaster of 9/11 of five years before still present in most people’s memories. There was a delay. Technical reasons, we were told. We chatted to Kristin, a young woman from East Germany and waited patiently. Beth was really coughing and when the flight scheduled for midnight, was cancelled, I again suggested we forego the trip. The flight was rescheduled for the following day, and still she refused.
We collected Beth’s car from the parking garage and invited Kristin to come home with us, rather than spend a night at the airport. I drove us back to Thonon-les-Bains. We pulled out bedding and mattresses and slept, not in a hotel room in Rome, but at Lac Leman. The next morning after coffee and croissants up in the little town, Kristin and I walked and explored leaving Beth to rest and recuperate. We had a glorious and unexpected day, and by showing my young visitor around this mediaeval village where I had lived for seven years, I rediscovered its charm, quaint passages and surprises. We walked along the lake where we swam and had a lovely gentle time.
Beth in the meantime was dealing with our travel arrangements. We were still leaving ‘that evening’ and would arrive in Rome around 10pm. One other unexpected thing happened on this unplanned day in Thonon. My friend Katherin, who had lived and worked in Rome for many years, popped in and gave me two instructions about ‘not to be missed’ experiences in Rome, even though the time would now be very short. She wrote down: Tres Amicis a trattoria and its address, and a nearby Biblioteca –‘Magica’ no address, where she had visited a fascinating exhibition on esoterica some years ago. We were not to miss this little library.
We would not have much time in Rome, arriving at our hotel at almost midnight. We would have Sunday and Monday, catching the return flight to Geneva in the evening. We parted from Kristin who met up with friends, and we were able to get a meal across the street from our hotel, even at that time – and then tried to get some sleep. Despite ear plugs, I was acutely aware of the coughing across the room.
The next morning over breakfast, we looked at my guidebook on Rome and at each other and surrendered to whatever would unfold. It was Sunday September 11 and there was a police presence and many tourists around at this lovely time in Rome. We set out. Now, of course in 1968/9 I had spent at least two months in Rome, turning eighteen in the city and so had some memory of the layout and major landmarks. I had been traveling with the professor of architecture and a group of art and architectural students and we had visited Italy for a period of four months over that time. I was easily able to guide us through the streets that Sunday morning.
But at some stage, I was aware of a different feeling taking hold of me. More of a clarity, a knowing. I began to move with a sense of inner direction, of familiarity. There was purpose in the way I started to turn down cobbled streets, off the main route. I knew exactly where I was going, where I was guiding Beth. I was looking for a particular place. But what? I felt that I would know it when I saw it. And then, turning a corner into a small piazza, there was an unimposing entrance to a church and this was where I stopped. Looking up at the name on the edifice as we stepped through the portal. ‘Santa Maria Sopra Minerva’. Yes, this is it. This is my church.
I strode down the aisle on the right-hand side of the church, which was empty apart from a handful of tourists admiring the beautiful blue mosaics in the ceiling vaults and pillars. I motioned to Beth.. ‘Here it is – here is my organ’, waving at an empty space next to the pillar looking up. ‘This is where I play the organ’, I said with total conviction.
Beth nodded ‘OK’. So, this was why I needed to come to Rome. I have had another life here, a life which it is important for me to know something about now.
And so we got to work. I found a number of other churches and chapels in the vicinity which resonated in the same way with me, but clearly Santa Maria Sopra Minerva was my favourite.
This was a breathtaking experience as we scooted around, darting in and out – and then it was definitely time to eat. Sunday lunch in Rome and in one of the cool shaded alleyways there was a small trattoria with two small tables placed outside on the street. The wooden sign arched above the doorway said Trattoria d’ai Tre Amicis al Pantheon. Without too much trouble, we had found the restaurant Katherin had instructed us to find. The trattoria had been around for a long time, perhaps in the family for several generations, and it felt like I had been there before many times. We had a long leisurely lunch and then returned to the hotel for a siesta.
On the way back, we checked up and down one or two side streets to see if we could see the library, aware that it would be closed in any event. Nothing suggested itself as an entrance to a biblioteca, and we went to digest and integrate this experience. That evening, the information of my past life became more defined as we focused. I had a list of all the churches and chapels in this area, with which I had had some connection. Apparently, my life was that of a musician. Not a famous personage but yes, a composer, and I performed and worked in these venues we had accessed today. I had lived a long life in the 18th or 19th century.
I do not recall now, what I was feeling that night as I tried to get some sleep in Rome with its street life that does not cease. There was a sense of needing to find out as much as possible! We had one more day and I had many questions.
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