My idea of a good day while travelling is to choose a street in Paris or London or San Francisco and spend the whole day just strolling up one side and down the other. Paying attention to the people who live and work there. Listening to their voices. Seeing what they see. Taking note of what captures their attention. That for me is a day of travel very well spent.

So you will begin to see how difficult it was for me to stand in a line very close to a mile long waiting to get in to see Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. Thousands of tourists shuffling their collective feet as we moved, inch by agonizing inch, closer to the entrance. I have never thought of myself as an elitist, or a cultural snob, but when you are packed in with folk from certain countries whose idea of bathing is a splash of water every Saturday night if it is convenient, you begin to question even the value of waiting to see one of the greatest treasures in the history of the world.

We shuffled on all morning and it was hard not wonder what else was going on among the labyrinth streets of Rome while we stood trying not to breathe too deep.

Finally, the entrance. A long circular stairway. An even longer hall, so packed with people that just walking down it made you feel as if you were on intimate terms with the entire Japanese nation. Then a small sign as the sea of humanity surged forth. Down some stairs. Turn left and suddenly there we stood in the very center of Michelangelo's masterpiece.

Our heads turned up, our jaws dropped down and our eyes couldn't help but be filled with tears at the utter beauty, the utter grace of it all.

I wondered if the hundreds of others packed into the little chapel were thanking God as we were.

Grateful.

Grace filled.