No doubt about it, the world we live in is dominated by a fast-paced, high-tech society. I’ve raged about this in the past, complaining that we need to take a break every so often to reevaluate our direction in life and reexamine the beauty of our surroundings. But there is no stopping the passing of time, and like it or not, successfully or not, I continue to go with the flow. Often competing against the madness and racing towards the higher end of the ladder.
I have to admit; there’s no arguing against the comfort that lies in security and success. Even the greatest of dreamers with their heads held high up in the clouds have to fall back to earth once reality sets in. A family to feed, mortgages to pay, children to send to school, and so on. Whether intentionally or not, I’ve started my trek on this fast-forward" road. People say that Singapore is the IT and biotech hub of Asia. And off to that small, dynamic city I went for schooling. They told me that the future is in China. And off I went to bustling Shanghai to find work. I was on the sensible track; that of the tried and tested. But somehow, a rung broke free and spun my world around.
I’ve never been a big fan of Europe. Naturally, I see its attraction as a tourist and romantic country. But the price one has to pay, financially and emotionally, to take off and live on such foreign shores, seemed to come at too high a cost. The fact that Europe used to be the center of action millions and millions of years ago seemed to me a detrimental factor. Europe simply seemed old, for lack of a better term. It symbolized a going backward in time and refusal to keep up with the turning of the wheel of progress.
Needless to say, for reasons mostly inexplicable and decisions rash in the making, I am now in Eastern Europe, the root of ancient civilization. Three days ago, I was in Rome, land of the Holy See, center of Catholic faith. The trip was divided into two parts; one day spent entirely on the Roman Forum, one day spent in the Vatican City.
My first view of the Roman Forum was amazing. Our director led the group from the hotel, and in the middle of a hectic throng of tourists, he told us to face the street and keep our heads down until he gave the go signal to look up. I trusted his good sense and thus bent my head forward, my insides tangled up in a mixture of exhaustion and excitement. "Look up." Two magical words. I heaved a sigh, looked forward, and in front of me was a sight I’ll remember vividly for the rest of my life. We were standing on a ledge overlooking a completely magnificent view of the Roman Forum.
In the midst of the ruins, our history teacher gave us a "crash course on the history of the world," as he termed it. I took in accounts of Constantine, Julius Caesar, Cleopatra, and Marcus Aurelius in that 30-minute span. Never did those figures of old seem to be more real to me than at that moment. The tireless efforts of my previous history teachers seemed to come to fruition. I was both taken aback and humbled by the vastness and greatness of emperors and conquerors who led millions of people to death and glory.
Early the next day, we woke up and caught the bus in a frantic attempt to be among the first in line to the Vatican Museums. As luck would have it, we arrived at the sight of a line much worse than one would see at the busiest of all Disneyland rides. After an almost two-hour wait under the scorching sun, we finally entered city walls. And what a sight it was.
Inside the Sistine Chapel, we were like ants, pushing and pulling at each other for the right to see the magnificent works of the greatest of artists. The experience was grueling but even then I couldn’t resist sending a postcard to my old school – telling my former teachers that I was finally seeing with my own eyes all that they had been forcing down my throats for a good twelve years of my life. Licking that stamp which had Vatican City written on it and placing of firmly on the card with the palm of my hand was a thrilling moment like no other. Family and friends had tried to prepare me for the sight of St. Peter’s Basilica – a monument supposedly big enough to be a representation of the home of millions of Catholics around the world, but their warnings were too silent and too few.
Even after most of my classmates had left, I stayed on and went up to climb to the top of Michelangelo’s Dome. It was a long and arduous climb that left me with flu-like symptoms the next day. However, making it to the top of that great Basilica and listening to faint hymns of the Mass going on below was a poignant encounter with the faceless names and nameless faces that I had absorbed in books, lectures and all forms of media. It hit me then. I now understood why so many people seek to make the long journey to Europe and witness the past glories of humankind.
History does not need to make sense; it is sometimes a basic necessity from which man learns from past mistakes, and sometimes a frivolity that prevents the moving on to new pastures. It is a pastime for most people, and a life-long commitment to some. But whatever it means to each individual, sometimes it is all that one needs to find whatever it is that he is looking for at a certain sliver of eternity.