Report by Stephen Clinton

When I think of Rome, I think ancient and classical: the epic battles in the coliseum, the chariot races of Circus Maximus, the lavish lifestyle of the emperors with imperial soldiers marching up the cobbled  roads. My journey to the eternal city, however, started off in a less than classy location: Prestwick Airport.

One would easily mistake it for a supermarket  if it weren’t for the Boeing 737s parked outside.

“Pure Dead Brilliant” the signs proclaim: pure and brilliant may be uplifting sentiments, but I’d rather not think about dead when I’m about to board a flying metal tube…

Check in: a ticket thrown rather grudgingly in my direction: “Enjoy yer flight.”

After a short wait which seems to take years, we board the flight, navigate to our seats, diving into our aisle before being trampled on by the stampeding passengers eager for the best views.

The traveller is a common species, sub-divided into many different breeds. Being able to identify these breeds is a useful skill which can be employed when deciding where to sit- or not to sit, as the case may be.

The nervous traveller sits to my right, head in hands, eyes bloodshot, whimpering as the engines rev up. Every bump is accompanied with a cry of terror.

The inquisitive traveller sits to my left,  insisting on pressing the air hostess call button in order to find out our current location, estimated time of arrival and the current exchange rate.

The wise guy traveller sits to my forward right, terrifying the daylights out of the nervous traveller by reciting air crash statistics, deliberately over reacting to turbulence and occasionally telling stories of previous experiences such as the time his flight was forced to crash land due to an engine fire.

Undoubtedly the worst type of traveller: the six year old one, who insists on kicking the back of my seat and screaming for the whole 3 hours and 40 minutes of the flight.

The night did its best not to reveal anything as we descended below the clouds to be greeted by the amber lights of the stradas and Piazzas.
Inquisitive traveller’s face is pinned against the window, seeking the Coliseum and St Peter’s Square. Difficult in the dark, especially when Ciampino airport is several miles from the heart of Rome.

The doors of the aircraft are opened by a butch Scottish air stewardess: “Thanks fur flyin’ Ryanair,” she says, and I return her smile as I know that I am leaving broad, classicless, cold Scotland for a while… the excitement bubbles within me as I approach the back door of the aircraft, glad to be free of this sardine can and onto Roman tarmac.

“Oh my God it’s freezing!!!”

 Everyone’s first words in the Italian capital. Not an auspicious start: if it weren’t for the Fiat Polizia car sitting near the entrance, we could have easily been back in Glasgow.

Nervous traveller manages to peel her hands from her face, then gulps a prayer of thanks as she realises she’s landed in one piece.

As soon as the aircraft doors are open we make a mad dash for luggage, a great British pastime which has been handed down since the dawn of air travel. Every second away from our driech and distant land counts, after all. We decide, as we watch the carousel limp round, to place bets on the bus driver’s name. When in Spain the bus driver is normally a short bald Spanish man called Pedro. I  bet  Mario, but he’s Paolo: good bye 5 Euros.

The bus journey was interesting, and served as a taster of Roman driving, a sort of who dares wins, an outright contest between the traffic lights and the driver.

We arrived at the convent after elbowing each other out of the way in order to catch a glimpse of  Michaelangelo’s Dome. We needn’t have worried about missing it: soaring to the heavens, dominating the skyscape, there is no chance of that.

The convent itself was a beautiful old Italian building with huge sash and case windows and marble staircases. The nuns spoke very little English but there was something rather intimidating about these hand maidens of the Lord. They were little, but they were tough, as we later found out when they outlined the house rules, including curfews and alarmed floors to detect midnight wanderings between male and female wings…

That night we took a stroll down to the Vatican, nearly being mowed down by a Fiat Panda and Scooter in the process. Most of us stood in awe at the magnificence that lay before us. St Peter’s Basilica stood tall on its ancient foundations, lit up against the dark night sky. The sounds of water from the fountains in St Peters Square added a sense of serenity and tranquillity. Not one of us dared to move, standing silent, absorbing the wonderful sight before us.

Spiritual nourishment was good, but our hungry stomachs soon advised us it was time to move on and find something incredibly Italian to eat.
We found it at the Mario Brothers - or the Al Brothers - Restaurant not far from the Vatican. Our group was greeted by one of the Brothers, who was very friendly if overly enthusiastic and who welcomed us back to the Restaurant many times during our stay. The place quickly became known as “The Local”.

After that first night, leisurely and touristy, just like any other holiday, our stay in Rome changed into something I hadn’t anticipated. 6am breakfasts and walks to morning mass while the moon was still up left me grumpy and often confused, but standing next to the relics of Saint Peter in the Scavi left many of us overcome, unable to comprehend what we had just experienced. The moments in the crypt will forever remain the most precious and cherished moments of my life. Knowing that Peter had been there, that a part of him still was, in an unmarked pauper’s coffin, made being a Catholic real to me. And me a wee boy from Motherwell. The Papal mass was a different experience, a different view of my faith, the haunting Latin sounds of the choir spiralling up, echoing into the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. The crowd in St Peter's Square erupted in applause and cheers as Pope Benedict emerged at the window. I listened carefully and felt  privileged to be where I was: standing in the shadow of the Vatican listening to Peter‘s heir. Many of us were silent, others in floods of tears. I thought of Peter and his companions and I think I had a glimpse of what they must have felt: terrified but safe.

Each place we visited, temporal and spiritual, left me awestruck. From the engineering brilliance and beauty of the Trevi Fountain and Coliseum to the wonders of the Roman forum and Castle San Angelo, the culture of Rome was a sweet assault on the senses.

Travelling in Rome was terrifying as well as enlightening : the crazy Taxi dashes across the city resembling scenes from the Italian job,  the taxi driver screaming: “Mama Mia” at the car who cut him off.

Each incredible day was followed by an equally enjoyable night. We wined and dined in some of Rome’s best restaurants. One of the most memorable - and painful - nights involved trekking to the other side of Rome for some chips: the most Scottish thing we did in Rome.
We would return  to the convent after dinner, and despite being drained after a long day, we would sit up until 2am in our pyjamas talking, joking, and laughing. We never wanted to be anywhere else other than here.

Rome is a hard city to leave. Not once during my adventure did I think of home: Rome was my physical home for a while but it will always be my spiritual home.

At the airport, nervous traveller, who on the inward flight was a babbling nervous wreck, sat in the departure lounge serenely. Inquisitive traveller asked no questions; wise guy voiced only cheerful observations about the weather.

Boarding the flight at Rome Ciampino none of us were thinking of what lay ahead - the cold, the rain, school - only of the majesty we were leaving behind, and the memories that we would always keep.

I threw my coin in the fountain, so God willing, I’ll be back.