Rome Sweet Rome and Monte Carlo
The Wanderer's Curriculum
A Learning Journey Through Rome and Monaco
The Seasoned Student
Standing on the deck of yet another cruise ship, I gazed out at the Mediterranean horizon and realized something profound: I had become a student of the world without ever enrolling in a single class. The gentle sway of the vessel beneath my feet felt familiar now—after sailing on almost every cruise line to nearly every corner of the planet, the ocean had become my classroom, and each port a new lesson waiting to be learned.
Tomorrow, we would dock in Civitavecchia, Rome's ancient gateway to the sea. But today, I found myself reflecting on what it truly means to learn through travel. Is it an accomplishment to have visited so many places, or simply an activity? The distinction seemed important as I prepared for another encounter with the Eternal City.
The Lesson of Eternal Rome
"Rome Sweet Rome" - the caption on my old photo from years ago seemed almost prophetic now.
As I walked through the cobblestone streets again, I understood why all roads are said to lead here. It wasn't just about the physical infrastructure the Romans built across their empire; it was about the gravitational pull of accumulated human experience.
Rome taught me my first lesson: Age is not about years, but about the stories embedded in stone. The ancient buildings stood as testament to this truth. "I hope I look this good when I'm over 1000 years old!" I had joked, but there was wisdom in that jest. These structures had weathered countless storms, witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and continued to inspire awe in travelers like myself.
Each visit to Rome revealed new layers of understanding. In 2009, standing before St. Peter's Basilica, I had been overwhelmed by its grandeur. Now, years later, I chose to skip the Vatican entirely. Not out of disrespect, but because I had learned that sometimes the most profound education comes from the roads less traveled.
The Monaco Moment
From Rome's ancient chaos, my journey led me to Monaco's modern elegance. The contrast was stark—Monte Carlo's gleaming casinos and manicured gardens versus Rome's weathered forums and crumbling aqueducts. Yet both places taught me about human ambition and the ways we express our desires for immortality.
Monaco showed me that luxury is not about wealth, but about the careful curation of experience. Every detail in this tiny principality was designed to dazzle, to create moments of wonder that visitors would carry home in their memories. It was a masterclass in how geography, culture, and human ingenuity could combine to create something entirely unique.
The Italian Revelation: Sacred and Digital
I spent my morning at the heart of Roman Catholicism: Saint Peter's Basilica. Pilgrims queued for Kodak moments, capturing eternity in flashes of light, yet the confessionals remained empty—the one place where silence outweighed spectacle.
The world has shifted. Religion feels almost pre-digital, a concept from another time. In its place, psychology trades sin for guilt, and cyberspace replaces prayer with presence. Bill Gates—the so-called Pope of Software—gave us an electric Gaia, a global brain, a distributed consciousness where our most private musings become part of the collective stream.
Sartre said, Hell is other people. Gates might say, We are gods—or at least made in the image of ones and zeroes. Home isn't where the heart is anymore. It's where the Wi-Fi connects automatically. Landlines were about places; cell phones are about people. This Machine-God whispers through emails, networks, platforms—Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, the endless torrent of digital voices.
The Dalai Lama of Integration, Steve Jobs, gifted us a celestial jukebox: iTunes absolution for 99 cents, songs that dispense blessings like modern-day indulgences—"Tonight's the night the world begins again."
And here I am, moving through this place—physically grounded, yet swimming through another geography altogether: the fluid ether of cyberspace. My hotel could be anywhere. It doesn't matter. In this new realm, location is merely a suggestion. Welcome to Infinite Smile.
In an act of sincerity—or perhaps irony—I stepped into an English-speaking confessional, seeking penance. They say the first step is having the intention to return, like the prodigal son. But at that very moment, the Monsignor emerged and hung a sign: Closed. Divine timing, or cosmic comedy?
Woody Allen once told me, back in 1980 at Stromboli's Pizzeria in Greenwich Village, "Showing up is 99%." And so, perhaps, intention was enough.
It was time for mass. But let's be honest—sometimes the movie (King of Kings, 1961) is better than The Book. I coughed, disrupting the prayers of the pious, and decided to slip away into Rome's streets.
Voice Inside My Head: "Did you say your prayers today?"
Me: "No, but I ate my lunch."
It was a Zencrafters moment—instant enlightenment in under an hour. I realized: Nobody's perfect, and in the grand architecture of Saint Peter's, I was just that—a nobody. But maybe you have to be somebody first before you can become a nobody.
After all, sin is just an archery term. It means missing the mark. The soundtrack in my ears? "Who else is gonna bring you a broken arrow… We got mountains to climb."
But it was in the everyday moments—the "creative chaos" of Italian daily life—where I learned my most valuable lessons. Italy taught me that efficiency is not the highest virtue; joy is. Watching locals navigate what seemed like impossible situations with a shrug and a "Forget About It" attitude, I began to understand that some cultures prioritize living over optimizing.
The Philosophy of Movement
My travels had taught me to distinguish between different types of cultural confidence. France carried itself with Napoleonic precision—everything in its place, every detail considered. Italy embodied something else entirely: a Roman Catholic sense of divine right to occupy space and time as they saw fit. Both were "Numero Uno" in their own ways, but their expressions of excellence couldn't have been more different.
This comparison taught me that there are multiple ways to be magnificent. Each culture I encountered had developed its own relationship with greatness, its own understanding of what it meant to be at the center of the world.
The Port City Wisdom
Instead of revisiting the familiar tourist sites, I spent my time exploring Civitavecchia itself—the working port that connects Rome to the wider world. Here, among the cargo containers and fishing boats, I discovered a different kind of ancient wisdom: the knowledge of those who facilitate connection between places.
The port workers, the customs officials, the local shop owners—they were the unsung professors of cultural exchange. They understood something that many tourists missed: that the magic of travel isn't just in the destinations, but in the moments of transition between them.
The Collector's Paradox
Reflecting on my extensive cruise experience, I realized I had become a collector of experiences rather than objects. Each voyage added another piece to my understanding of human diversity, another data point in my ongoing research into what makes us similar and what makes us wonderfully different.
But I also learned that collecting experiences, like collecting objects, requires discernment. Not every port visit needed to be a deep cultural immersion. Sometimes, the most educational choice was to slow down, to choose depth over breadth, to really inhabit a place rather than simply photograph it.
The Curriculum of Curiosity
My photo from Rome, playfully captioned "2 Tix To The Gun Show," captured a moment of pure joy—the kind that comes from being completely present in an extraordinary place. These moments of lightness taught me that learning doesn't always have to be serious to be significant.
The best education often comes wrapped in laughter, in the willingness to be slightly ridiculous, in the courage to document not just the monuments but the human moments that make travel memorable.
The Ongoing Journey
As I prepared to leave Italian waters once again, I understood that my real education was just beginning. Each journey had taught me something new about the world and about myself. Rome had shown me the power of endurance, Monaco the art of refinement, and Italy the wisdom of embracing beautiful chaos.
The ships would continue to sail, carrying new students to these same shores. But I had learned that the true destination of any journey is not a place on the map, but a new way of seeing. Every traveler charts their own course through the curriculum of curiosity, and no two diplomas from the University of Experience are ever quite the same.
The Eternal Student
Standing on the deck as we sailed away from Civitavecchia, I realized that I would never graduate from this course of study. There would always be new routes to explore, new cultures to encounter, new lessons to learn. The world is vast, and I am still, at heart, a student.
The photos in my collection are not just memories; they are textbooks, each one containing lessons I'm still learning to read. And somewhere ahead, beyond the horizon, the next chapter of my education is waiting to begin.