out. There were always six of them, so they could work in shifts. In exchange for this service, they were treated as divinities. They were given a palace to live in and had the same privileges as
men. In times of crisis, they were called upon to give advice on matters of Roman national security.
They got great tickets to the theater, people held parties for them, and they were paraded and revered everywhere.
The only catch? Try thirty years of celibacy.
Thirty years of living with their fellow vestals, poking the fire and doing crossword puzzles. If they broke the virginity rule, they were taken to a place that translates as “Evil Fields” and led down a set of stairs to a small underground room with a bed and a lamp. Once they were in, the door to the room was shut, the steps pulled up, and the whole thing sealed over in dirt. Which is pretty harsh.
Still, you’ve got to hand it to the vestal virgins. It may seem sad and scary—but realize just how much power people have always seen in women on their own.
The remains of their temple are in the Roman Forum, and you can see their statues. (The Forum is basically attached to the Colosseum.) Go and visit them, and make them an offering. This is your task.
When you are done, you can open the next envelope, right there, in the temple.
As for where to stay, may I recommend a little place I stumbled on when I arrived in Rome? It’s
not a hotel or a hostel—it’s a private house with one room for rent. It’s run by a woman named Ortensia. Her house isn’t far from the main train station. The address is on the back of this letter.
Va-va-voom,
Your Runaway Aunt
The Road to Rome
Ginny hated her backpack. It kept falling over on the scale because it was so weird and lumpy and tumor-like. It was more purple and green than ever in the fluorescent light of the airline counter. And it was obvious that the millions of straps (which she wasn’t really sure she had laced right, so the entire thing could come apart at any second) were going to catch on the conveyor belt and stop it and all of the luggage would get backed up. Then the flight would be delayed, which would throw off the entire airport schedule and disrupt events in several countries.
Also, the nasally BudgetAir check-in woman had taken a little too much delight in telling Ginny, “Five kilos overweight.
That’ll be forty pounds.” She was clearly unhappy when Ginny yanked on some of the straps and managed to get one of the pouches off, making the bag just the right weight.
As Ginny walked away from the check-in, she realized that this flight could not be safe if five kilograms made that much of 127
a difference. This flight had also been purchased online that morning for the insane sum of £35. (It was called BudgetAir for a reason.)
Richard was standing by a slowly rotating display for duty-free liquor, wearing the same slightly baffled expression he’d worn when they’d met days earlier.
“I guess I should go,” she said. “But thanks. For everything.”
“I feel like you just got here,” he replied, “like we didn’t even get a chance to talk.”
“I guess we didn’t.”
“No.”
They began nodding at each other again, and then Richard swooped forward and gave her a hug.
“If you need anything—anything—don’t hesitate to call. You know where to find me.”
“I know,” she said.
There was nothing else to say, so Ginny carefully backed into the crowd. Richard waited there until she turned and headed off to her gate and was still there watching when she checked with a glance back as she entered security.
For some reason, the sight made her very sad, so she turned around sharply and kept her back turned until she was sure that he was out of sight.
When BudgetAir said the plane would land in Rome, they weren’t being literal. What they meant to say was, “The plane will land in Italy; that much we will guarantee. The rest is up to you.” Ginny found herself in a
men. In times of crisis, they were called upon to give advice on matters of Roman national security.
They got great tickets to the theater, people held parties for them, and they were paraded and revered everywhere.
The only catch? Try thirty years of celibacy.
Thirty years of living with their fellow vestals, poking the fire and doing crossword puzzles. If they broke the virginity rule, they were taken to a place that translates as “Evil Fields” and led down a set of stairs to a small underground room with a bed and a lamp. Once they were in, the door to the room was shut, the steps pulled up, and the whole thing sealed over in dirt. Which is pretty harsh.
Still, you’ve got to hand it to the vestal virgins. It may seem sad and scary—but realize just how much power people have always seen in women on their own.
The remains of their temple are in the Roman Forum, and you can see their statues. (The Forum is basically attached to the Colosseum.) Go and visit them, and make them an offering. This is your task.
When you are done, you can open the next envelope, right there, in the temple.
As for where to stay, may I recommend a little place I stumbled on when I arrived in Rome? It’s
not a hotel or a hostel—it’s a private house with one room for rent. It’s run by a woman named Ortensia. Her house isn’t far from the main train station. The address is on the back of this letter.
Va-va-voom,
Your Runaway Aunt
The Road to Rome
Ginny hated her backpack. It kept falling over on the scale because it was so weird and lumpy and tumor-like. It was more purple and green than ever in the fluorescent light of the airline counter. And it was obvious that the millions of straps (which she wasn’t really sure she had laced right, so the entire thing could come apart at any second) were going to catch on the conveyor belt and stop it and all of the luggage would get backed up. Then the flight would be delayed, which would throw off the entire airport schedule and disrupt events in several countries.
Also, the nasally BudgetAir check-in woman had taken a little too much delight in telling Ginny, “Five kilos overweight.
That’ll be forty pounds.” She was clearly unhappy when Ginny yanked on some of the straps and managed to get one of the pouches off, making the bag just the right weight.
As Ginny walked away from the check-in, she realized that this flight could not be safe if five kilograms made that much of 127
a difference. This flight had also been purchased online that morning for the insane sum of £35. (It was called BudgetAir for a reason.)
Richard was standing by a slowly rotating display for duty-free liquor, wearing the same slightly baffled expression he’d worn when they’d met days earlier.
“I guess I should go,” she said. “But thanks. For everything.”
“I feel like you just got here,” he replied, “like we didn’t even get a chance to talk.”
“I guess we didn’t.”
“No.”
They began nodding at each other again, and then Richard swooped forward and gave her a hug.
“If you need anything—anything—don’t hesitate to call. You know where to find me.”
“I know,” she said.
There was nothing else to say, so Ginny carefully backed into the crowd. Richard waited there until she turned and headed off to her gate and was still there watching when she checked with a glance back as she entered security.
For some reason, the sight made her very sad, so she turned around sharply and kept her back turned until she was sure that he was out of sight.
When BudgetAir said the plane would land in Rome, they weren’t being literal. What they meant to say was, “The plane will land in Italy; that much we will guarantee. The rest is up to you.” Ginny found herself in a
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