Flight was uneventful and as pleasant as it’s possible to be. Viva la Business class.
Met by the gregarious landlord Franco, who explained, in broken English that was far superior to my broken Italian, the various features of the apartment.
It’s oddly shaped, with sudden steps up and down, dim to the point of gloom, and has a faint smell of mildew, but it’s in a 17^th century building on a quiet street in a hopping district, with a comfortable bed, a well-equipped kitchen, ample room for two people, and a charming little balcony, so it’s all good. Bonus: lots of clearly written, large print signs detailing how to wrangle the washing machine, safe, and kitchen appliances. Less appealing: screamingly bright CFL bulbs, no spare throw or blanket. And it’s really cold.
Headed out to accomplish three things, the kind of walkabout that gives me a feel for the neighborhood– buy a SIM card, pick up fruit and milk, and grab cash from an ATM.
Went to a TIM office in a square that was actually a triangle, Piazza di San Cosimato. Two arrogant, aggressive men waited on me while insulting each other like 21st century Romulus and Remus. Google Translate got me the deal I wanted.  Picked up apples and bananas from the market in the square, and milk and yogurt from a side street supermarket, housed in a warren of narrow aisles. Tried to get cash using my debit card in an ATM in a bank that partners with BOA. The machine refused my card for three attempts. My Visa card had no problem forking over the cash. Hmm.
Suddenly reeling, with bleary eyes and wits scrambled with weariness, headed back to the apartment to put away the milk, then off to Dar Poeta. Two small rooms, brown paper over red-checked tablecloths. The pizza was a puddle of cheesy porky goodness on a crisp-on-the-outside-soft-and-yeasty-on-the-inside crust. I could feel my will to live returning.
Back at the apartment, I received an alert that the bank had frozen my Debit card, due to suspicious activity. It had two numbers to call, and neither worked. I tried using my phone and using Robert’s phone. I tried with and without country codes. I looked online for an alternate way to contact them – nothing. I did all these more than once. Did I mention my wits were scrambled?
Went into my bank account online, and updated the travel advisory page with my new SIM card number.
The email BOA sent to confirm this had a link for a phone call. Eureka! I finally spoke to a human via a call directly from my computer, who transferred me to another homo sapiens. After proving I was myself with various security questions and strings of identifying numbers, my debit card was unfrozen and added to my travel plan alert. This took the better part of two hours.
Meanwhile, Robert napped and then went out looking for a place around the corner to eat at 6:30. Too early, I warned him. He went anyway. Came back unable to find his way using the Google maps app. Places are empty, he said. Wait until  8pm, I suggested. He went back out at 7:30. Came back, restaurants still not open.Robert went out again. My eyes were raw and I just wanted to soak in a hot tub. Not in this locale. This place has a telephone booth-sized shower (ask your parents, kids). In the end, I fell asleep around 9:30, shortly after I dropped my book/iPod on my face. I slept like the dead and woke up refreshed at 6am. Amazing.

Tomorrow -Vini Vidi Vici

So far, so good. Multiple little bumps smoothed out – bank card unblocked, SIM card not international – but no big deal. Milk is still latte, WhatsApp works like a boss, the sky is blue, and there’s a reason pizza is universally beloved.  Robert and I walk like two dogs on one leash, but our intentions are benign.
Walked to Villa Farnesina, a sumptuous mansion/mini palace, built for Agostino Chigi who sincerely believed more is more. Every inch of wall and ceiling, shutter and door is richly painted, marble underfoot in every room. Everything the eye can see depicts love; the trials of Psyche (soul) for her Cupid (love). The mighty Cyclop Polyphemus, pining for the nymph Galatea. Roxane, bride of Alexander the great, on her wedding night. Raphael’s beloved, a baker’s daughter nicknamed  La Fornarina, was (allegedly) kidnapped by Chigi and brought to the villa because Raphael wouldn’t paint without her. That’s her distinctly Roman face on Galatea.

The rooms empty completely, then fill to the brim with restless swarms of teenagers, herded by guides using headsets and speaking a both Italian (a priest) and French (a chic, strict professoressa). Two audio guide tidbits: the painting of a young man’s head in grisailles, was supposedly sketched by Michelangelo with a bit of charcoal, though another painter signed it.

In Chigi’s painted bedchamber, covered with scenes from the life of Alexander the Great, the painted mirror on the headboard of the conquerer’s curtained four poster bed appears to reflect Chigi’s bed. That artist knew which side his panini was buttered on.
I did a spit take when I saw my name scrawled across a landscape. Turns out it was graffiti left by 16th-century German mercenaries. It wasn’t me, your honor. My alibi – not yet born – is air-tight.

We left around two and had lunch at Osteria da ‘Zi Umberto. We were the only people inside, all the Romans (and tourists) were basking in the sun at the outdoor tables like sleepy lizards on a rock. We dined on excellent artichokes and pasta. Not tired of it yet.
Strolled down to the bridge along the Tiber, before heading back for a nap. I wrote this, Robert went out exploring and brought back three kinds of pastry and a Panini. The affable landlord came over and addressed the heating, (thermostat adjustment) the lighting (the bulbs are effectively bare as they are bigger than the shades) and produced a spare blanket from locked cupboard. Couldn’t fix the lights, but Robert did (I am married to the grip). They all sport cunningly crimped aluminum foil hoods now

We’ve had pizza, pasta, paninis and pastry. Instead of la dolce vita, it should be la pasta vita.

Stopped for a quick espresso on our way. I asked GoogleTranslate for a cappuccino with two shots of espresso. A very nice man beside me at the bar explained, “oh no, Google is good for one word, more, it’s too much.” The American phrase ‘shot’ does not translate. Google had me requesting cappuccino with two slugs of booze. The correct request, which he kindly wrote down for me on a post-it, is ‘Doppio café nel cappuccino.” And it was just the rocket booster fuel I needed. Dashed into Santa Maria Della Scala, said my morning prayers under the festoons of crystal chandeliers, and put a few euros in the candle slots.
Walked through the crisp and partly cloudy morning to the Palazzo Corsini. There’s a Caravaggio and a Raphael, said my notes. Oh, and so much more.
They only accept cash at the ticket counter. I saw a Fra Angelico straight away, morphed into my art-by-osmosis daze and drifted through the grand halls plastered with grand art. So much to love.
I’ll return with my sketchbook after Robert goes home. I could sit here for days. Bonus; there are numerous hassocks to sit on while you soak in art
Some stand outs:
A ceiling painted like china. Just smack you in the eye, unapologetic beauty.
A room with an exhibition detailing what x-rays reveal beneath the surface painting.
A window with portion of the glass bracketed by a pair of picture frames. Instant landscape.
A pair of cupids wrestling – Romulus and Remus, the preschool years.
An excellent copy of Raphael’s Pope Julius II.
A portrait of someone’s elderly nona that showed her true age, wisdom, and good humor.
A wall of still lifes, including two Bruegels, a pair of swags representing Spring and Fall.
A sculpture of a reclining God, bearded and scowling. Very Robert-esque.
The aforementioned Caravaggio – his portrait of a young man. I can’t decide if the youth looks dissolute or if that’s Caravaggio’s reputation talking.
A portrait of Margherita Luti, La Fornarina herself, by a different painter than her lover, Raphael. A beauty, but not the smoldering minx his brush portrays.
This is a wonderful place to visit – a steady stream of visitors but no swarms. Multiple soft places to sit. Excellent sight lines.
Next we walked across the Tiber and on impulse whipped into Roscioli for an early lunch. The soup was so delicious my toes curled; chickpeas, scallops, salty bacon, pumpkin seeds. So simple. Next destination was the Crypta Balbi. It took more than one try to find the entrance (beneath the scaffolding, next to the crane.) This museum plunges beneath city street level, multiple strata of brick, stone, and marble marked by fire and earthquake, that date back thousand + years. When you thought you were done, there was another corridor below ground in the depth of early Rome, or another flight of stairs to a museum of artifacts above. It was sweltering hot above ground and shiveringly cold below. It reeked of antiquity, something we Americans have no notion of.
After Balbi I was toast, but foolishly kept going. Paid my respects to the tomb of Fra Angelico, a painter who soul was said to be as beautiful as his work, beneath the blue and gold ceiling of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. After a brief detour to buy art supplies (a small sketchbook and red chalk) Robert wanted to visit the Pantheon, so we wove our way through the streets straight into a heaving throng of tourists. I stood in one spot and looked up at the oculus, while Robert circumnavigated the interior. It was a mosh pit of hands waving cell phones, like someone had kicked over an ant hill of tourists. I couldn’t wait to leave.
By that time I was limping. Sucked it up and carried on. Robert took a photo of me as we crossed the Ponte Sisto bridge because the afternoon light was pretty. Me, not so much.
Another a great day. Tomorrow, the Baths of Diocletion.

Off to a late-ish start, a brisk walk to the Ponte Sisto and cascade of minor glitches snarled us up. The Uber app was balky and kept looping around. The first driver canceled us, the second was on the other side of the very busy street and had to wait for the light to change.
Robert was resigned. I was cranky. We arrived at the Baths of Diocletian close to 11:30. I’d had no breakfast, so I stopped for a slice of raspberry tart and an espresso. My spirits visibly brightened. The power of pastry prevails.
We toured the baths and the section converted to the National Roman Museum. It is one of four branches of the museum, another being the Crypta Balbi. Two down, two to go.

I soaked in the peace of the grand cloister.  A cedar in the center of the garden, propped and supported by iron bands, was allegedly planted by Michelangelo. Stele and tomb fragments defined the outer perimeter of the square. These monuments were made fascinating to me by the Mary Beard BBC documentaries. I was able to recognize the word carrisimo – dearest – on this one. Poignant. There were sarcophagi carved with the decease’s hopes for a happy afterlife (mostly involving wine and sex), masks of tragedy and comedy, and ringing the center, giant animal heads from Hadrian’s front yard.Robert goofed on the famous door with a trompe l’oeuil painting by Filippo Balbi. It portrayed a lay brother who holds a piece of paper with the words Erudi filium tuum et refrigerabit te et dabit delicias animae tuae (Discipline your son, and he will give you rest; he will give delight to your heart. – Proverbia XXIX: 17 ESV).

The National Museum of Rome displayed more fragments of Roman life; statuary, armor, more stele and small caskets. One simple but chilling display of a twisted metal ring with a metal tab, like a large dog tag, offered a reward for the return of the runaway. It was likely for a slave and not a mastiff.
The enormous scale of the baths themselves impressed me, and the idea of being clean in those filthy times seems enormously appealing. I can well believe the availability of running water, saunas, and hot and cold baths for all citizens would have made Rome the envy of the provinces. The building had temperature extremes – super cold in the cavernous baths, and sauna hot on the upper floors of the museum. Layer up, people.

One of my favorite pieces was an enormous, ancient urn-shaped fountain, patterned with lichen and surrounded by mosses.A couple canoodled nearby, a Roman Love, Actually moment.

It was a long day. I saved touring the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs for another visit. Ubered back to the Ponte Sisto, and did a bit of shopping on the walk back to the apartment, picking up prosciutto and bread. Saw a seven-month-old cavalier dog, who melted our hearts. We are dopey for our dog.

 

Up before dawn after a restless night. Jet lag is no joke. Out by 8:30 with e-ticket printouts in hand. The streets were notably quiet except for seagulls** diving for discarded pizza scraps on the cobbled street. Uber dropped us off in the neighborhood of the Palazzo Colonna, we only had to scout around for a few minutes to find our way to the entrance.  Crisply efficient uniformed staff took our backpacks in the entry vestibule and handed us substantial folders listing the paintings. We climbed up a narrow stair, through one anteroom into another, then BOOM. Shock & Awe. The main hall stretched before us and I had no words. A vaulted ceiling, broad expanse, antique statuary to the right and left, walls all but paneled in dozens of oil paintings, any one of which would be the pride of a provincial museum. Ceiling frescoes bristling with depictions of the victories of the Colonna patriarch Marc Antonio  (not to mention the 22 cardinals, one pope, and military heroes galore), bronzes, benches padded with velvet at intervals, I suppose for those of us overcome with the sheer magnificence. Diplomats, visiting royalty, barbarians from the west, enter here and know you are outclassed and outgunned.
In the center of wide marble steps into the grand hall is a cannonball, half buried in the marble where it landed, just above a smashed lip of a tread. Way to keep it real, Colonna.My brain started chanting ohmygodohmygodohmygod on repeat. I looked like a goggle-eye fool but I didn’t care. The guards, dressed in well-tailored blue suits, were all as beautiful as the woman in the paintings. Polite, helpful, gracious. And the art! Oh the art. Even Robert was impressed. Everything from a rare image of Mary Magdalene repenting while clothed.

What to wear when you hang out with the Pope.
Tapestries, threads still bright with color. Busts of the Patron as Pope. Painted mirrors.Oh, how I wanted to draw. Not allowed. But I’ll be back. When we left at 11:30, two and a half hours had flown by in a blink. I comforted myself with the fact that my Context tour is already purchased.

We hurried down the streets,  hoping to beat the rain to the Barberini. Again, finding the entrance to a building that takes up a city block requires patience and tolerance. Google will pinpoint the building but not the entrance. Painful experience has taught me that the best way is to go the website of the venue and use the map on that site for directions to the entrance. There are often helpful photographs of the outside which give you a clue. Every building in the center is next to another just as grand or ancient or imposing, or all three.
The first floor of the Barberini was a disappointment after the grandeur of the Colonna. The rooms looked so dated, like my 1980s kitchen. Dolorous Virgins and glum Christs hung on walls sponge painted in textured pastels. The floor was a utilitarian herringbone pattern terracotta brick. Meh.Robert nodded off in a chair while I prowled around. To see the upstairs you had to go outside and back in (don’t lose that ticket!). A wonderful carved bas-relief lion halfway up the grand staircase got my hopes up. I went from optimistic to eager, but that still did not prepare me. I  turned a corner, entered a small room, clapped my hand over my mouth and shrieked. Before me was the painting of La Fornarina in all her glory. I likely stood the same distance away as Raphael did while he painted his darling. He caught it all – her charm, his lust, his affection, her allure. By some artistic alchemy, he found a way to show her off and keep her to himself at the same time. Nothing says MINE like a gold armband with your lover’s name on it. It made me shiver. I dropped everything, and just drew for a while so I could look and look. It was for a moment like this that I came to Rome.

I stopped at 1:30 and found across Robert a couple of rooms later near the famous Holbein portrait of Henry the VIII. Robert was flagging.  I left, knowing I could and would revisit this place at my leisure.
We searched for one of the places I’d marked as decent, non-touristy restaurant that Google swore was ten minutes away. The rain was starting in earnest, and we nearly gave up, when Robert asked a shopkeeper where to find it. We’d walked by it twice.  No sign, small door. Alrighty. But, sure enough, we dined well among happy, gesticulating Roman businessmen and families. He had the cod and potatoes, I had a pasta with cheese and orange rind (odd but good). He had tiramisu, I had chocolate and pear tart. It was 3pm and we both wanted nothing more than a nap. Uber found us and brought us back. We fell asleep and woke up in time to do laundry and think about dinner.

Tomorrow, coffee with our landlords.**225 kilometers inland – seagulls must consider the garbage of Rome a banquet worth the flight.

Pouring rain changed our plans. Instead of a walk through the cobbled alleys of Trastevere to join our landlords for coffee, they gave us a ride to EUR and we had coffee near the museums we planned to visit.
I can’t say enough good things about Federica and Franco. She is an archaeologist working in prehistory, brilliant, lively and kind, and he is a retired engineer, calm and a veritable saint when it comes to assisting a clueless tourist with her baffling SIM card issues. The apartment we rented from them has a quirky charm, a well-stocked kitchen and has been a very comfortable base of exploration.
EUR, Esposizione Universale Roma, was initiated by Mussolini and intended to be the city center of Fascist-era Rome. WWII stopped construction and many buildings were not completed until the 1960 Olympics. It houses corporate and government offices and a complex of museums. One of the iconic building is the Colosseo Quadrato.We shared conversation and delicious coffee and pastries in a large, bustling café.  Afterwards, they dropped us beside the portico of the Prehistoric Ethnographic Museum.
The Hipstamatic photo app seemed apropos for these artifacts.
I found this couple, spooning in their shared grave, deeply moving. Love may not conquer death, but it sure makes life worthwhile. Fish hooks and needles, sure, but who knew the safety pin has been with us for 2000 years?Among the masks from other cultures was this doppelgänger for Mad Magazine’s Spy vs Spy.

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Sometimes I find hope for the future of humanity in the little things, like this hair comb. A necessary item made into a charming ornament.We went back to the little dove pastry shop and coffee bar for our lunch – and I’d recommend it if I could accurately Google it up.
The sky was now a brilliant blue, everything washed sparkling clean by the thunderstorm which had rolled through. We passed a little tent market, with a three-wheeled flower truck parked by the curb. I found a scarf I liked, and Robert found a wallet he wanted for his birthday (happy birthday, darlin’). The best score; a cheap cable for my elderly iPod.

The Roman Culture Museum had all kinds of interesting depictions of daily life, and humble yet beautiful implements, but what we won’t forget were the fencing exhibitions we stumbled upon.  There was sword play in progress all over the museum, from children competing in a grand hall to tutorials in various rooms and on the balcony.

It was like coming across a covey of re-enactors or a gaggle of Game of Thrones extras.
When pre-planning and serendipity converge, it makes for a very satisfying afternoon.

We queued in line half an hour before the Borghese Gallery opened, as instructed.
Shuffled in the doors opened, lined up to hand over our e-tickets, moved to the coat check line to store Robert’s backpack, and joined the line waiting for actual entrance. That’s four lines, and we had booked our tickets weeks in advance over the internet. Here’s a tip – get to the Borghese early, because that last line takes half an hour to enter the museum if you are at the end of the queue. That’s thirty minutes time subtracted from the scant two hours you’ve got. Because, trust me, when that time’s up, the guards herd you out with brisk and firm efficiency.
That said, the Borghese gallery, justly famed for phenomenal art, an excellent audio guide (and drawing permitted), is worth it. Three out of four ain’t bad.
I burned twenty minutes drawing the sacred figure (from Sacred and Profane Love) because I wanted to look deeply. Je regrette rien.
Amongst all the famous masterpieces, I was very taken with this little drawing.Took photos like everyone around me until I was barked at by a guard.
I didn’t stress about having to leave because I have another reservation for later in the month. Next time I’ll spend more time downstairs.
Walked through the Borghese park, a very pleasant stroll, to our chosen lunch venue. I didn’t realize it was a stone’s throw from the Spanish steps. Uh oh. Escada to the left of us, Versace to the right. Terminally Hip territory. Gina’s, Via S. Sebastianello, 7A, was strong on concept and décor. The food wasn’t bad either. My sandwich, which came trussed up as a point of style, was fine. Robert didn’t care for it, though he enjoyed his Caeser salad. (I somehow doubt romaine lettuce with grilled chicken was the meal of choice for the emperor, but thanks for the name, Julius.) The thing is, meals made to impress aren’t as appealing as they once were. We like simple, good food in a reasonably comfortable atmosphere, the kind of joint that has a coterie of regulars.
When I was planning this part of the trip I made an effort to balance spectacular paintings with artifacts. We Ubered to National Etruscan Museum, Villa Giulia Piazzale di Villa Giulia 9, to take a look at the Etruscan collection. Once there, we realized we couldn’t tackle the museum without a postprandial espresso. The museum personnel were exceptionally kind and helpfully directed us to a nearby coffee bar that was populated by students (it is a truth universally acknowledged where there are college students, there is coffee). Well caffeinated, we returned to the virtually uninhabited museum.  Robert looked up in the room next to the entry hall.The showpiece is the life-sized funerary figures of a husband and wife reclining atop their sarcophagus, eternally calm and smiling. They looked distinctly Persian to me, but I am no scholar of historical ethnicity. I read the wall plaques, as I do, and found this painted pot’s story poignant. Hercules, renown slayer of monsters, ‘even in the flower of his strength’ was unable to defeat the monster assaulting this man; the vagaries of old age.There were repositories for human remains shaped like huts, tools for cooking and spinning, various bronze shards and fragments, and this row of penises that reminded me of toy cannons. They were in a case of various body parts used to implore the gods for a miracle. What has stuck with me, days later, is the story behind four figures on a temple frieze. The story goes an Etruscan king, mortally wounded himself, ate the brains of his dead enemy. Mercury was bringing him a vial with the elixir of immortality but a goddess (Athena? Artemis?) was so disgusted by his cannibalism that she withheld it. Blood and the wholesale death of warfare, acceptable. Eating brains, not so much. Glad there was a line not to be crossed.
I visited all forty rooms and it was oddly reassuring to see the exhibits of stirgils and strainers, gold rings and mirrors, painted pots and cheese graters; the humble detritus of the people who lived before the rise of the empire, and the vast numbers required to sustain the preeminence of Rome, obscured by the grinding war machinery of Roman glory.

BY 9am we were out the door, flying down the stairs, and through the narrow alleys to meet Uber at the top of Garibaldi street. Made it to our appointed tour of Le Domus Romane, di Palazzo Valentini, Piazza Foro Traiano, 85, with eight minutes to spare, and promptly walked off in the wrong direction. We hit a dead end created by massive construction. We circled, re-entered the address in both of our iPhone maps, asked passersby, poliziotto, and construction workers, all in vain. A hustler pestered us until Robert snapped, “Shut up!” “What are you, her bodyguard?” the tout jeered, and we kept circling. We’d ask “Dove Domus Romane?” and people would smile, point and reply, “Colosseo.”
Fifteen minutes later, after we’d missed the start of the English tour,  it occurred to me to go to the website. There I found directions on a map linked to Google, and a photo of the entrance. The construction guy whistled to us and pointed to a businessman, who gestured with his briefcase. We realized it was tucked in a corner behind the tout that we had hurried past. “Karma for being mean,” Robert muttered.
We ran in, apologetic, sweaty, and distraught. The desk clerk guided us across a courtyard, through an iron gate, down multiple stairs, lifted a curtain and handed us off to the guide of the tour in progress.
I was instantly blind. Could not see even the faintest outline of anything. Not a photon. I could hear the recorded tour voice, but when urged to go forward I froze, unable to move in the utter blackness.
Sadly, I was too freaked out by being late and blind, to enjoy the experience. The floors were transparent over the archeological remains of a once grand house. The site was in a prime location with a view of Trajan’s Column in the front yard. The virtual reality effects educated the eye; delineating strata of time, and filling in remnants of a mosaic floor, defining columns, balustrades, stairs, and doorways. Short videos recreated entire furnished rooms, complete with sound effects.
Only eight people in this English language tour, a plus, but the gloom necessary for the laser effects gave me the unfortunate sensation of falling. I shuffled across the glass, unsure when to step up or down. The dialogue was super cheesy, with zings of Tinkerbell sounds and self-important trumpets. I would have liked it better with earplugs.
The environment of the rich and powerful Romans was interesting, But I couldn’t quite erase thoughts of the slave economy that made that life possible. Blood and misery of the defeated, human beings made slaves to build the grand stone roads and marble walls, to cook and clean and mind the kids and provide sex and keep the machinery humming. It tarnishes the whole grandeur that was Rome slant. The bodies and souls crushed to juice every domus of the empire were as intrinsic to Rome as her military prowess.
Feeling slightly dismal, we tackled the next part of the day with a certain grimness. I was setting off in search of an ATM, trusting Google, when Robert spotted one a block away. My ATM card worked like a charm. Paydirt! We high-fived each other.
After waffling about where to go next, we decided to keep to the original plan. Instead of Ubering, we jumped in one of the white taxis lined up at the curb and headed for the New Testaccio Market, Via Aldo Manuzio, 66C . The taxi was cheaper tha Uber, though the driver scowled and drove like a man possessed. Into the market and found the place Katy Parla’s blog recommended, Mordi e Vai. Things were looking up. We took a turn around the market, taking it in. I found a lovely periwinkle violet scarf for Julia and a canvas tote with a stylized graphic of Maddy for Robin. Eureka! Both claimed to be Made in Italy and I hope it’s true. I saw a woman getting a bright purple rinse in a one-chair stylist shop, stalls that sold cheap yarn and notions, shoes and handbags. Multiple greengrocers, a juice bar, suppli (fried rice balls), coffee bars, rows of chickens complete with heads, skinned rabbits, a fish monger. We returned to Mordi e Vai purveyors of Roman street food. I ordered from the posted English menu and the man behind the counter sighed, “You come to Rome and you order sausage?”
I asked which was his favorite, and it wasn’t tripe, so I went for it. When he floated the freshly cut bread in the sauce created by the slow simmered beef I knew I had chosen well. We sat at a table provided for diners in the center of the market. Followed our sandwiches with espresso shots and a pastry so uninspired we chunked it.
We walked to the Centrale Montemartini, Via Ostiense, 106. It’a bold mix of classical statuary, mosaics, and grave markers from the Capitoline Museum with massive industrial machinery. It’s housed in a former electrical plant.
The walk there was a reward in itself.  We passed a small memorial cemetery for British military who died in WWII. Tucked into the shelter of an aqueduct, it felt like a small park, tended, green and tranquil, except for the forlorn rows of white crosses.
We spotted a house built on top of a truck. Two stories pieced together from trellis material and scrap tin, with pinwheels whirling away.
There was this striking black and white street mural, that Robert couldn’t resistInside of a pedestrian tunnel were more pointed political graffiti, like this nod to the ladies.

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Both appropriate and ironic, considering it was International Woman’s Day. Thanks for the 24 hours, boys!
One entire block of buildings was a rainbow of gardens and giant heads. We bought delicious cream puffs from a random coffee bar. This area felt like a neighborhood, very different from the tourist-saturated streets of the center.
The museum was housed in former power station and smelled like a cross between Robert’s shop and an abandoned stone quarry. A distinct cool metal, old machine oil, and marble tang. It reminded me of home.
The juxtaposition of scale and eras and materials really worked for us. The elegant lines of white marble bodies dwarfed by the complex bulk of massive machinery. Robert loved this place. Here he is, in action.

I recognized a funerary monument from the Mary Beard documentary Meet the Romans, tucked away in a back corner. Watching that series has enriched every aspect of my trip.
The venue was all but deserted. I saw three other people besides a pair of guards fixated on their iPhones. I don’t think the impact of the iPhone on modern times can be overstated.
Back via an Uber Mercedes van that careened through the tiny streets of Trastevere with unerring accuracy. How do they do it? Drivers must have invisible whiskers like cats.

 

 

 

 

Robert left on a beautiful blue skies morning, Ubering to the airport in a black Mercedes. I missed him right away. He spoils me. I admit it. On the bright side, it will be easier to catch up on the blog, since that’s my solo evening activity of choice. To console myself, I decided to visit the Doria Pamphilj Gallery. On the way, I passed this man at work and dropped five euros in his collection box. It’s hard on the streets for an artist.The Doria Pamphilj Gallery is the standout favorite in my memory. It’s more intimate in scale than imperial, with an inventory that includes three Caravaggios and a renown Velasquez. Add to that, the founding collector preferred, as I do, the northern renaissance.
One of the charms of this museum is the audio guide narrated by a scion of the family that includes his childhood recollections of roller skating in the ballroom and having to polish the Cotto floors by hand with beeswax sourced from the family farms.
From my two prior visits (2004, 2008) I noticed paintings have been moved. The Pope Innocent X by Velasquez was repositioned from a corner alcove to the prime spot of the hall of mirrors.The Carravagios, which were scattered here and there, are lined up together, a trifecta of artistic triumph.On a humbler note, one of my favorite paintings was this lovely portrait of *another* fully clothed Magdalen. Dare I hope it’s a trend?As it happened, the day I visited they were filming a documentary, complete with Steadicam action. I had a brief chat with the sound technician and made sure to stay out of sightlines. The other thing I spotted was someone actually cleaning. I have long wondered who they find to clean irreplaceable, priceless furnishings. Here she is in action, using a soft brush for the crevices of an elaborately carved and gilded table.

On my way out, I saw this cherry red Ducati, parked well inside the palazzo. Nice ride. Looking for a place to eat, I mistakenly wandered into the maze surrounding to the Trevi fountain. How did I know? The population suddenly quadrupled, streets packed out with hucksters, performers, souvenir sellers, costumed mimes, ticket touts, and tourists. So many tourists. My idea of Hell. I bailed on my Googled restaurant choice and gladly walked another 15 minutes to eat at Valentino’s again. I drew postcards while I waited for my order, surrounded by contented Romans dining well. Afterward, I spent a happy half hour sitting by a fountain in a little garden behind the Jesu church, before wending my way Trastevere-wards.