Last fall, I studied abroad in Ireland. I could tell you about how I searched in vain for a box of Lucky Charms and Irish Spring Soap, only to find a Guinness and a moldy potato, but that story would be too stereotypical. However, I will tell you about a weekend trip to Rome, where I visited the Vatican -and a brothel --in the same day.
Now, don't get excited. I purchased neither a glow-in-the-dark rosary nor a hooker. And I only meant to go to the Vatican, especially if my mom ever reads this. When I went to the Vatican, everything was going holy until I arrived at the Sistine Chapel. I was raised Catholic, but I'm not necessarily a Catholic. I'm just kind of Catholic-y. That means the Catholic guilt without all the beliefs. But in viewing the chapel ceiling, Michelangelo's masterpiece depicting the Bible's story of Genesis, I was awestruck. The massive painting depicts over 300 figures, including several of the big guy himself. There was God shooting fireballs a la Mortal Kombat to create the planets in one place and gently leaning over to give Adam the poke of life in another. I was overwhelmed. With my head turned up, my mouth gaping and eyes gawking, I heard the words: holy s@%t. I was appalled that someone would utter such blasphemy in God's house, until I realized that the curse actually came from my mouth. In shock, my hand raced to cover my mouth, but before it could get there, I followed it up with an Oh f%*k. God had to hear that one. I glanced over to my friend, who was equally appalled, and he gave me one of those, Yeah
you are going to hell looks. For the rest of our visit, I kept my mouth closed, trying not to get myself cast down further to any inner circles of hell.
Later that night, we were going to take it easy, try not to piss God off. We met a friendly English businessman on the street who offered to buy us a drink at a bar down the road. Naturally, we accepted. After a short walk, we came before a grey concrete building with a puke yellow awning hooded over a doorway that read, Club 85 Cocktail Bar. As we went in, a towering Italian led us to a table in the back of the club. On the way, we saw that the club was almost entirely empty, except for a bar, couches, a disco ball and a table of 12 scantily-dressed women. It was then that I turned to glance at my friend, and he gave me a Yeah we're in a brothel look, which looked surprisingly similar to the Yeah you are going to hell look. The Englander ordered us some beers. Never having been in a brothel before, I retired to the bathroom to hide my money in my sock. When I returned, three of the scantily dressed women were sitting at my table. They made small talk. My friend's sex worker could not speak English, but mine was almost fluent. We talked about the weather, of course, and marveled about how it was cold in Ohio and warm in Italy. Then, I delved deeper. Where are you from in Italy? I asked her. You know Mafia? she said. I should have known. Really? You're in the mafia? I said. No
Sicily.
About that time, the gigantor Italian man came over with a jade bottle of smoking champagne. He looked at us and said, Buy drink for ladies? Before, everything was free, and then suddenly he was asking for my money. I had no moral qualms about talking to hookers, but now they were trying to take my money. This was an assault on my stinginess. I had to put my foot down (which ironically contained my money). Yeah
we're poor students. Sorry. The girls asked with feigned hurt feelings, You don't want to buy drink for us? -like they wouldn't be asking for us to buy anything later. We apologized. The jig was up. The Englander suddenly rose with his sex worker and made his way to the bar. When we looked back, he was gone. But the girls stayed for another five minutes. My sex worker talked about her ex-fiancé who was a doctor in Florida, which led to a pleasant conversation about Disney World and the beach. But after a while, I started to feel like that guy in Denny's who only buys a cup of coffee and distracts the waitresses. When we got up to leave, the girls wished us good luck and we wished them the same. Looking back on it now, that day, I had been in two places that seemed to be polar opposites. The Vatican and a brothel. But in each one, I learned that nothing in this world is pure. Most things are a mix of good and bad. There is blasphemy in the Sistine Chapel and pleasant conversation in a brothel. It all depends on which words you want to listen to.
-Brian Trapp is a senior specialized studies major. Send him an e-mail at bt322701@ohiou.edu.
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