Stroll to the Vatican

95 degrees, Roman noon— the sun’s a drunk swinging a broken bottle. No grand pilgrimage here, just me shuffling toward the Vatican because it’s somewhere to go. Birks flapping, camera cocked— daily trudge to Piramide, six-tenths of a kilometer that feels like crossing the Sahara for a man who skipped breakfast. August air chews the city alive; even the statues sweat. I wipe my face, curse the empire, use that stray Egyptian pyramid— wrong century, wrong continent— as my cracked compass: get there, find the train, find the beer. Nothing holy about it— just a mis-placed tombstone promising shade, cold metal rails, and a can of something cheap to remind me survival is a sacrament too.