✈️ Miles' Travels – Episode 6: The Rose Shower at the Pantheon
That morning, Miles and the Excel Tourist They had left early for Piazza della Rotonda. They wanted to have breakfast opposite the Pantheon, in a small café where the view was as majestic as the frothy cappuccino they were served. The croissant crunched with every bite and left behind a warm, buttery scent that mingled with the murmur of the fountain and the murmur of the square.
Rome at that hour was a picture perfect: the iron tables and chairs, the shutters still half-closed, the ancient stone gilding in the first light. Between sips, Miles felt that the cappuccino had a different flavor; it wasn't just coffee, it was the sensation of being at the heart of the world, with the temple of the gods as his dining companion.
—Croissant: satisfaction level 92% —the Excel Tourist noted, between serious and proud.
Miles smiled, though inside he was still thinking about the photos, the angles, and not missing anything.
Shortly after, with their phones and cameras ready, they crossed the square and entered the Pantheon of Agrippa. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Miles felt the rush of fresh air, the silence, the solemn gloom, the smell of incense mingled with ancient stone. The dome opened like an eternal sky, and the oculus let in a ray of light that seemed more like a miracle than an architectural fissure.
Miles looked up and wondered anxiously if he could capture such grandeur in a photograph. But he quickly realized that the images were recorded elsewhere, in memory, on the skin.
Then it happened.
At first there were a few, almost timid, and then a cascade of red petals began to descend from above. The crowd held its breath. Thousands did too. The sky had begun to rain inside the temple.
The petals settled on her hair, her shoulders, the marble. The Excel Tourist, camera raised, murmured:
—Calculated probability: 100% on Pentecost.
But Miles wasn't listening anymore.
He felt himself throbbing in another era, within a scene that wasn't his own. His breathing calmed, his hands stopped shaking, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't think about plans, statistics, or schedules. He just opened his arms and let the petals envelop him.
Surprise. Wonder. Peace. Enjoyment. All together, like an invisible hug.
An old man at his side said in a low voice:
—È lo Spirito Santo che descende.
Miles didn't quite understand, but something in his chest opened. He closed his eyes, and in that instant, he understood: Not everything can be controlled, nor can everything be foreseenLife, like that eternal Pantheon, also opens up to the unexpected.
And that's when he felt it, for the first time, the anxious traveler stopped calculating and simply lived.
English version
✈️ The Journeys of Miles – Episode 6: A Rain of Roses at the Pantheon
That morning, Miles and the Excel Tourist left early for Piazza della Rotonda. They wanted breakfast facing the Pantheon, at a small café where the view was as majestic as the foamy cappuccino. The croissant cracked with every bite, releasing a warm buttery perfume that mingled with the fountain's murmur and the low buzz of the square.
Rome, at that hour, was a perfect painting: iron tables and chairs, shutters still half-closed, ancient stone turning golden with the first light. Between sips, Miles felt that the cappuccino tasted different—not just coffee, but the sensation of sitting at the heart of the world, the temple of the gods as a tablemate.
“Croissant: satisfaction level 92%,” noted the Excel Tourist, half-serious, half-proud. Miles smiled, although inside he was still thinking about photos, angles, the fear of missing anything.
Soon after, phones and cameras ready, they crossed the square and stepped into the Pantheon of Agrippa. As he crossed the threshold, a coolness met him—silence, solemn penumbra, the scent of incense mixed with ancient stone. The dome opened like an eternal sky, and the oculus let fall a ray of light that felt more like a miracle than an architectural gap.
Miles looked up and anxiously wondered whether he could trap so much grandeur in a photograph. Then he understood: here, images were engraved somewhere else—on memory, on skin.
Then it happened.
At first just a few, almost shy, and then a cascade of red petals began to descend from above. The crowd held its breath. Miles did too. The sky had started to rain inside the temple.
Petals settled on his hair, his shoulders, the marble. The Excel Tourist, camera raised, murmured, “Calculated probability: 100% on Pentecost.” But Miles was no longer listening.
He felt himself beating in another time, inside a scene that didn't belong to him. His breathing calmed, his hands stopped trembling, and for the first time in a long while he wasn't thinking about plans, or stats, or schedules. He simply opened his arms and let the petals surround him.
Surprise. Wonder. Peace. Delight. All at once, like an invisible embrace.
An elderly man beside him whispered, “È lo Spirito Santo che descende.”
Miles didn't fully understand, yet something in his chest opened. He closed his eyes, and in that instant he knew: not everything can be controlled, nor can everything be foretold. Life, like that eternal Pantheon, also opens to the unexpected.
And that was when he felt it—perhaps for the first time—the anxious traveler stopped calculating and simply lived.
English 
Español 
Français 
Italiano