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They all went to the market outside of town but I didn't feel like shopping. The sky was moody and the day was new. I walk toward the caffe at the end of the block. The clouds broke and the streets were wearing a new layer of rain. My shoes filled with rain and the drops falling got bigger and bigger the farther I walked. I ducked into the caffe and watched the city move in the rain. Italians have this remarkable skill of never looking awkward. They hold their newspapers over their heads and move through the heavy rain with grace.

Mass didn't start until a half hour later. The sun broke through the top of the Pantheon and onto the wall, the cylinder of bright light showing the dust in the air. I sat in the pews amongst old women donning their Sunday shoes, skirts, and eyeshadow. A beautiful man stands behind the microphone to say, 'it's now time for holy mass; all of the tourists need to exit. the pantheon is now closed' The noisy dome slips into hums and whispers as the fanny packs and tennis shoes make their way through the giant double doors.
The priest in green holds the podium for dear life. His gold rimmed glasses fall to the tip of his round nose. The microphone moves his voice around the giant dome. A couple dressed in black held hands standing in front of a beautiful woman playing her accordion with her eyes closed. The couple filled the pantheon with their big voices carrying ancient song.
Peace be with you, I said. Pace sia con voi, they said.