For the Love of an English Major!

I've come to the terrible realization that not every entry can be about the postal service.

So here! Let's go back to Rome for a second.


Having narrowly escaped the Swiss Guards at the Vatican, we made our way to Piramide, where the Non-Catholic Foreigners' Cemetery is. It was quiet and green, and populated by more than a few stray cats --- I have to say that the cats roaming around made me more nervous than wandering the graveyard did!

"It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place," said Shelley. Lucky for him, he drowned and was cremated and buried here.

Lexi and I went on a mission, though --- to see the grave of Keats:


Chalk that one up as a success, I think!

In case you don't want to strain your eyes, it reads "this grave contains all that was mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, Who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart, at the Malicious Power of his Enemies, Desired these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone: Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

It wasn't the first time I'd sat and spent an afternoon with the remains of a great writer. Having gone to high school directly across the street from F. Scott Fitzgerald's grave, it felt very comfortable sitting on the grass and resting our sore feet next to Mr. Keats -- some morbid kind of deja vu. I know they say familiarity breeds contempt, but it was actually one of the nicest moments of our trip, those few minutes with Keats and his friend Joseph Severn and the horrible yowling cats.

Later that afternoon we ended up at Keats' apartment next to the Spanish Steps, happily shown by a sweet docent who insisted we take in the museum at our leisure, even encouraging us to sit on the period furniture next to her dog, who was equally as content in the library armchairs as he was trotting up and down the stairs. Another reason why dogs trump cats in every possible situation.