Friday morning, the day after Robert went home, the wifi went down in my section of Trastevere. I had to conserve my cellular data for Google maps, Google translate, and Uber. That’s how I fell so far behind on the blog. It was a couple of days before I could, for example, download photos. But the enforced break did me good. The internet doesn’t even chew before it swallows me. I did check in using WhatsApp. It’s been indispensable.  Don’t leave home without it. And I hiked to a distant coffee bar that had free wifi, but I only did that once. The servers were gorgeous, brutally hip, and rude as hell.
I fled hipsterville and went to a spectacular exhibition at the Scuderia del Quirinale. Some of the best paintings and sculpture from the Renaissance were targeted by Napoleon and hijacked for the Louvre. Once the Corsican was defeated, Italy negotiated their return. They got them back in part by promising they would be exhibited to the public and not sold to the highest bidder. Interesting provision. This was a show of some of the treasures that were returned.
They were impressive works, but what has stuck with me was one of the first acquisitions of the school, the marble effigy of a military leader. Not the stoic knight one often sees, but a beautiful youth in armor, asleep. It was said that if a maiden kissed this statue on the lips, she would be married within a year. One look at this marble face and you see how rumors like that get started.Lunch again at the Valentino. It was slammed today – Fridays must be a thing. I think I am going to be a regular. They are nice, it’s all locals, and they are fine with me drawing postcards while I wait. The food is simple and good. It’s comforting to have a regular place. Speaking of postcards, I mailed the first batch today. Here’s the post box. I’m hoping they make it home.

Saturday evening, while the WiFi was still on the fritz, my intestines crashed and burned. I will spare you the nasty details. Let’s just say my innards decided to reenact Pompeii. Before that hit me, I did visit the for the Artemesia Gentileschi exhibition, in the Palazzo Braschi. Photos were not allowed, though before I realized that I took a couple. I loved this self-portrait sketch.

Drawing was permitted and I had a grand time sketching Judith Beheading Holofernes, and a small painting of woman’s face that was identified as a study for a saint, but oozed sexual allure. Patron Saint of Satisfaction, maybe. 

Later that evening, after I returned home, internal disaster struck. It was so debilitating, I bailed on my tour of Nero’s Golden House. Sunday I moved from my apartment in Trastevere to one a few blocks from the Vatican Museum.  By Monday, I was back up to speed.

Monday, March 13, at 7:45 am, I wove my way through the tour groups trudging uphill on the Viale Vaticano to a side door, a break in the massive stone walls that encircle Vatican City and the official exit of the Vatican Museums.
Masses of hopeful tour attendees, lured by the promise to ‘skip the line,’  shuffled forward between metal barricades that aimed their advance back and forth, like the lines at TSA.  As I edged through the sluggish line past the touts and the Vatican ushers,  I considered my chances of squeezing through the crush at the front. Realizing it would be like wading in the Okefenokee, I hopped over the metal barrier instead. Armed with my happy experiences at the Louvre and Hermitage, I walked up to a guard and asked, “Dove exit door?” He pointed to the very entrance the hundreds already in the queue and more streaming up the hill were aimed toward. Resigned to turning back to the end of the line, I said, “I am a patron.”
“Right this way,” said the guard, “straight through that door.”
He didn’t have to say it twice. I bounded up the steps feeling like Jack standing on the railing of the Titanic’s bow. I’m Queen of the world!
I swooped inside, was greeted by a cordial gentleman who already knew my name, sent through the Patron relations department. He checked my ID, issued my pass and I headed to security, which was exactly like the TSA, without the line. After a brief pause at the window reserved for special guests to pick up my gratis ticket, I ditched the escalator for the spiral ramp. I cantered up past displays of model ships and boats, and paddles arranged upright on the wall like so many spears. I  nabbed an audio guide. Moments later it was just me, and Sekhmet, the lion- headed god of Egypt.
Here’s a brief account of my first day. Statuary of the Pio Clementino rooms brilliant, the Attrio de Quattro Carazze courtyard everything they say. Cave Canem!I loved the black and white mosaic of the crow and hare.  Every bearded male reminds me of Robert.Sadly, the maps are inadequate, more like a guide to subway stops than anything I’m accustomed to. Two lines, one the fast track to the Sistine Chapel, the other a slightly more scenic route, have dots along the way that mark the order of the individual museums. It offers zero information on how many rooms, how they are laid out, and what you might expect to see there. I am going to be making my own map.
After an hour, I asked directions to the Museo Chiaramonti’s long hall of marble statuary and guards cheerfully directed me the wrong way. One moment there was a reasonable ebb and flow of visitors, the next thing I knew I was sucked into the relentless throng of the Galleria della Carte Geografiche. Elaborate maps, cartography of the ‘Here There Be Dragons’ style, lined the walls, truly sumptuous painting glowed overhead. It’s all for naught. The mob marches on.
It’s just like the packed, shuffling masses in Russia’s Catherine Palace. You’re caught in a heel-toe shuffling snake, one 30+ person clog of a tour group following the next. It’s inexorable. One way, no pausing, no turning back, tour group after tour group after tour group. Arms waving cell phones like some kind of demented sea anemone. Here’s the dream versus the reality.

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There are few opportunities to slip away, but the rooms of modern art, where almost no one lingers, are your best bet. A few of the side rooms are virtually abandoned, including one with a small Van Gogh of the sorrowing virgin and her son.

Even better, though most of the modern collection was not to my taste, the ceilings were still glorious. There were the additional consolations of wide wooden benches, dim light, glorious walls, ceilings, and mosaic floors in rooms that were blessedly cool and virtually abandoned.
I scrambled through the Sistine Chapel scrimmage like Walter Payton, and headed out the right-hand exit door. I wanted to visit St Peter’s Basilica before I took myself to a late lunch.
Like the museum, it was packed with paintings and sculptures everywhere you looked. Unlike the museum, entry was free and it effortlessly absorbed the hordes. By some architectural alchemy of light and space,  it transformed a heaving mob into a decorous congregation.
I took a moment for prayer and felt the mantle of spiritual history settle on my shoulders. I drifted around, soaking in the atmosphere of calm, and resting my eyes on the spaciousness made possible by grand scale.It was the ideal antidote.
I stood on the very round marble slab where Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne Emperor of the Romans on Christmas Day.
I glimpsed a Swiss guard in his blue and yellow striped Renaissance uniform, like a blink from the door of a time machine.
I examined the bronze doors with new appreciation now that I’m a humble metal worker.
I breathed the free air of Saint Peter’s Square.
I bought stamps and can’t wait to mail postcards from here. Assuming sketches that include nudity are not an issue. I’ll ask.
Lunch was tasty enough. I tried Ragno D’Oro, Via Silla, 26. Fried artichoke, pasta, tiramisu, my usual trio. The server was cordial and I would have come back but the owner scolded me for drawing a postcard at the table. Not the place for me.
I’d walked 3.8 miles inside the museum, every centimeter drenched in glorious color and pattern and much it the work of genius. I’ll be back tomorrow.

 

Patrons have a round gold pin the size of a tie tack. I clipped mine high on my shoulder since hoodies lack lapels. It’s my Get In Free card, one the guards know at a glance.
I packed my Longchamps bag (waterbottle, sketchbook and pencil case, iPad, lip balm, change purse) and walked to Caffetteria Ruberto, a local Roman bar and my source of espresso. I chose it for proximity and its 7am opening time. I would have made the effort to go a few more blocks to the venerable Sciascia Caffè, Via Fabio Massimo, 80/A, but it doesn’t open until 8am.
I liked Caffetteria Ruberto’s vibe right away. A case filled with fresh, hot croissants, pastries, panini, and tramezzino ran the length of the bar.
Two men behind the bar got it all done; one lined up cups and saucers, pulled shots and frothed milk, the other tonged up the pastries and took money. On my second visit, the espresso boss slid my double shot cappuccino in front of me as soon as I bellied up to the bar. He seemed to know everyone’s preference. Customers streamed in and caffeine was flying out. This was the place for me.
At the museum doors at 7:58 I blew past the tour crowds, navigated security and Patron Will Call, and headed straight to the painting gallery like an art seeking missile. No one was there but the guards on their iPhones. Time to create a usable map. I numbered rooms as I went, took an establishing photo of each room with my phone, and noted works of particular interest. There were icons aplenty.Salvaged fresco fragments, like this angelic musician, playing the triangleI indicated which rooms have chairs or benches. By the time I got to the Raphael gallery, I was comfortable enough to draw an identifying thumbnail sketch (the much-copied kneeling Magdalene)

I looked a long time at this painting of Saint George slaying the dragon. The face of this St George was so specific it was nearly a portrait, not just generically heroic. I also found him beautiful. Robert in armor, amirite?Bottom right was a corpse holding his head neatly in the crook of his arm, the dragon’s Happy Meal dinner.There wasn’t much of a crush until after 11:30. They’re all stampeding toward the Sistine Chapel. Good news for me!
I saw a large work being prepared for transport. I held my breath when the workers hammered on the frame. They had half a dozen eyes on their every move; guards, white lab-coated restorers, and suit and tie supervisors. They must have cojones of bronze.

Around noon I went back to the octagon courtyard and drew this guard dog on a postcard. Cave Canem! Though the guards noticed, no one seemed to mind.
I checked out the museum of carriages. The usual gilded and carved overthetop conveyances that shriek romance to a girl raised on Disney. What was more interesting was the Pope’s white jeep (including white leather seats) from a visit to the Holy Land. Seems counterintuitive, like having a white trowel. Oh, right. He’s got one of those too. I wandered around some more, trying to understand the layout, to prepare for tomorrow. Three of the listed museums were closed for the duration, but there was still more than I can say grace over.I took lots of photos, and managed not to get caught in the Sistine Riptide.
Around 2pm, I walked 20 minutes or so to Velavevodetto ai Quiriti Piazza dei Quiriti, 4/5  for lunch. It was fancy in a stuffy, velvet banquet, white linen, arched doorways, lots of wine bottles for decor kind of way. The amatriciana was oddly flavorless, just tomato-y and pasty textured pasta. Not the place for me. Back at the apartment by 4. Fell asleep sitting up. That won’t do. I gotta turn out the light (turn off the iPad) by 10pm tonight.

 

 

Two days of scouting the Vatican Museums like a tricky location, and I’ve refined my strategy. I gallop in, turn right into the Pinacoteca and head straight to the last room, the Raphael room. After 30 minutes alone with la Fornarina’s man, I ambled around the Egyptian rooms. Thinking about the contrast of the beautiful marble effigy of the knight and the desiccated mummy. This is probably not the eternal life the Pharaoh was hoping for. 

I followed my nose around the sculptures lining the Galleria dei Busti.

I walked the length of the hall, looking into the face of long dead Romans and Greeks. Instead of the blank perfection of gods, people looked back at me.
Here’s a tip – on the right side of the staircase leading down to this is a narrow door, and down a few twisting steps is a miracle – an uncrowded four stall bathroom. It’s staffed, so it’s always clean and somehow overlooked.
Two days of looking and not drawing had made me a little crazy and I decided to take a breather in the Cortile Della Pigna. I sat on a bench nearest the pinecone, flanked by peacocks and those serene Egyptian lions, and drew a few postcards for my family. The tide of tourists ebbed and flowed past me. Sketching takes me to that still place where the chatter of my monkey brains quiets down and it’s just hand and eye, line and light. It was nearly 2 when I checked the time, and I decided to grab a taxi and go back to Valentinos for lunch. On my way to grab a taxi from the stand directly outside the exit door, I looked left and saw the triple layers of security that have been in place every day. Now might be the time to mention visibly armed guards seem to be outside every monument, church vestibule, museum, and palazzo. I can’t figure out how the branches of law enforcement and military divvy up the territory, but all the men cradle some kind of assault weapon and have intimidating stares, like they were raised by gyrfalcons.  I don’t know if they just look fierce, or are actually bloodthirsty, I just hope they’re competent with all that firepower. I keep a nervous eye on where the business end of the guns are pointed.
When I walked into Valentinos, it was such a good feeling to be greeted with recognition and pleasure. I had a leisurely meal and was ready for bed, though it was only 3.  Uh oh. Turns out there are not enough hours in the day to soak in art/eat/write/draw/read/sleep. I am getting up 6am to fly through the Vatican doors at 8am, but I stayed up until after midnight Monday and after 1am Tuesday night.
I have promised myself that I will turn off all electronics, no later than 10 tonight. I am so very tired right now that staying awake is really hard, and it’s only 7. I’ve got to keep my eyes open until 9 or I’ll be up at 3am. That would not be an improvement.

 

 

En route to my daily double shot cappuccino at Rubertos, I heard noisy cooing overhead, looked up and saw a nest preciously balanced on a light fixture. A pair of pigeons were flying in breakfast and standing sentry. Spring is in the air. That’s mama’s wing in the top center.I  was greeted at the Vatican door by Simona, my tour guide.  Simona has the kind of enthusiasm for art, history, and faith that can’t be manufactured. She ran – literally sprinted –  to the Sistine Chapel and we sat together while she whispered about  Michelangelo’s process.  She acknowledged the other artistic achievements on the wall – Botticelli is a standout – whose work is eclipsed by the tour de force of Michelangelo’s ceiling. I’d never noticed that Adam and Jesus share the same face. We agreed Savonarola, who convinced Botticelli to burn his paintings, had a lot of ‘splaining to do. As we walked through the rooms she pointed out where Roman architecture in frescoed backgrounds is a gift to historians. She knew the names of Raphael’s friends and mentors in the School of Athens. I was looking for la Fornarina’s face. I told her about my interest in reliquaries and she knew right where to find them.

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Check out the simple but effective pierced base of the ivory box. I am so stealing that! Limoges made such delicious blues.
She pointed to a simple yet beautifully painted crucifix I might have passed by and told me it was carried by Loius XVI as he climbed to the guillotine. Holy cow. She talked knowledgeably about repoussé and engraving techniques. When we both blanked on the word chasing, she pulled out a notebook where she’d written English translations of art-related terminology. She takes her job so seriously she’d done homework. We are kindred nerd spirits. She’s done icon painting using original methods. She says she solved a difficulty with one of them after spending three days in meditation and prayer, the method of the original icon artist. Seriously, I will have to try that the next time I am stumped.
All in all, a fantastic guide, Insightful, knowledgeable and patient, with a great sense of humor. I can’t imagine a better companion for an artist. If you want her contact deets, hit me up.We took a detour so I could meet the kind people in the Patron relations department who’ve been wrangling my requests for this trip. A trio of delightful young women greeted me, and couldn’t have been nicer. They took me and my art-fueled enthusiasm in stride. Thanks, ladies.
Becoming a Vatican Museum Patron includes a choice of tours as a perk of membership. I selected a tour of the restoration department. Boy, did I pick the right thing. It was fascinating to see the restoration in progress, and have the opportunity to meet the professionals who, patiently and with great skill, perform this labor. There are in-house staff and several permalancers.  One person was cleaning a modern art piece that so many people touched it was discolored. Apparently, if it’s made of brass it’s a magnet to swiping fingers. Another restoration in progress was a shield in shards as thin as paper, sections supported by filament-thin line. A few gaps were filled in with paper, painted with watercolor glaze. I have photos, but only for personal use, specifically not for public media. Sorry!
Other restorers were undoing the damage caused by the clumsy efforts of former restorers, like fabricating missing parts, or using substances that accelerated deterioration. Currently, the ideal is to halt decay and remove fake elements, leaving only the original and authentic. The work schedule is set two years out. They don’t get to pick and chose which projects to tackle. Some religious objects require delicate handling – reliquaries can’t be touched unless the relics are removed, which can’t happen without Bishop’s oversight. A project needs four months of study and two months of work. Think about that. Nerd girl nirvana! I could have sat in for days.
This has been a wonderful experience for me.  I am looking forward to singing their praises to the Atlanta Chapter.
Meanwhile, bd sure to look up. This time, it’s Raphael’s Adam and Eve.

Perhaps you’ve noticed a pattern. What, you thought I came to Rome just to eat pasta and pannacotta? The center of my travel bullseye is the Vatican Museum,  but it’s like drinking a pitcher of cream; so rich that it’s hard to digest. I’ll need time and the familiarity of daily life to absorb this experience. I expect I’ll be doing it for years to come.
I’m at the door of the Vatican Museum, 8am sharp. I ran straight to the Galleria dei Busti, sat and did a terrible drawing one of the Caesars, enthroned in a chair. It never did come right. I ended up substituting a climber’s cam for his sword, but nope, nothing doing. Not every sketch is good, but fortunately for me,  the calming effect isn’t connected to the success of the drawing.
Moved to the Cortile Della Pigna, ate an apple strudel pastry from Ruberto and an orange. Drew a virgin that worked fine, copied a preparatory drawing of a lion by da Vinci, then I stood and drew the bearded face that gushed water into the fountain. I said hey to the guard who remembered me from previous visits and always greeted me kindly. I felt it all click. It’s taken me a week, but I have my feet under me now.
Taxi to Valentino, where I am seated after a few minutes. I order the cod and potatoes. I think about how I love inventive cuisine back home, but here I crave simplicity, familiarity and a place I feel at home. Valentino is that place for me, out of all the places I’ve tried.
Not feeling so tired after lunch today – probably because I was sitting and drawing for most of the morning instead of standing and walking. Decided to see the nearby contemporary art exhibition in the Palazzo delle Esposizioni, Via Nazionale, 194 – how much time could it take?
Sure enough, it didn’t take long for me to skate through the first floor exhibit of a German artist Ge0rg Baselitz. Polite interest turned to boredom and then impatience.

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Dutifully, I read some of his artist’s statements and my bullshit meter spun out. I mean really? Seriously? I am not a fan. Went upstairs to the Book of Life /DNA exhibit, expecting not much, and I was enchanted.  From entering through a curtain into a darkened room where this happened:

I enjoyed everything about it – from the use of multiple medias,  the videos and vintage instruments and papers and abstract pea plants made of paper to a death mask of Dolly the cloned sheep,to a bio-engineered cornea floating in a bottle.

If you get a chance, check it out.
Decided to do one more thing and set out in search of chocolate, the good stuff. Quetzalcoatl won because it was a 16-minute walk instead of 23. Off I went. You can’t always trust Google maps to get you there. The route sent me straight to a building with four different kinds of guards – police, military, someone tall and grand like an Italian Mountie wearing a metal helmet with a crest, and a genial Sargent Colon type who looked at the Googlemap on my phone and shook his head.
I had to backtrack down flights of stone stairs and through a long tunnel deafened by motorcycles roaring and bus gears grinding, and lungs tight with exhaust fumes. One of those moments that happens on every trip when I think, what the hell am I doing here? Doggedly continued, only to be swamped by a wave of tourists pouring off a bus and into the tunnel. Dammit. Into the tunnel! WTF? Out the other end to full on tourist central. No cars, but plenty of army jeeps and police cars and uzis. I surf along a swell of tourists surging forward and I realize I am in front of the Spanish steps.I wish I could set up my Google maps with an alarm that would go off when I mistakenly enter the Tourist Zone. I trudged on because the Holy Grail of Good Chocolate was four minutes away, but my hopes plummeted. It was going to be overpriced crap. Two more streets, a turn, and I though I was still in high-end tourist territory, they were not wall to wall. At the door, I walk in and scout the chocolates precisely place on display. “Caramel and chocolate?” I inquire, braced for the usual disappointment. ‘We have the best,’ she declares. ‘Try this.’ As she hands me one she says the magic phrase, ‘be careful, it’s drippy.’ And OMFG it is, it’s freaking heavenly. It’s the best caramel-filled chocolate I have ever put in my mouth. Perfection. I get ready to empty my wallet into her pockets, and leave with a box of delights, including candied ginger dipped in chocolate. Swoon.
Heading back home on foot I look for a white taxi stand. See a lone taxi at a stand, but he says, fixed price, 15 euros. What?  He points across the street to the Plaza Hotel. Okay, thanks but no thanks. I walk one more block to another taxi stand, jump in and when I get to my door, it’s 7.50 euros. And this guy is a fan of the blues and R&B. Sam Cook! BB King! Otis Redding! He’s naming his favorites, rolling his rs in that Italian way and when he says Aretha Franklin it sounds like sin on a stick.
Tomorrow, back to the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj.

 

I’m not at the Vatican today because it’s Saturday. A consistently useful strategy I employ is to avoid the major attractions on weekends, and head for smaller, less trafficked venues. Today I have a pre-booked midday event at the Doria Pamphilij; a guided tour of the galleria in conjunction with a mini concert of live baroque music. Before that happy hour, I needed to take care of a few domestic tasks.
Did a bit of laundry in the bathroom sink – a good sink for it, with a functional stopper and enough room to scrub without sloshing. Hung socks and knickers over the towel warmer and radiators. Dressed and took off to the coffee bar, where my cappuccino is slid in front of me. The barista wears Harry Potter horn rim frames and has kind eyes. The man who bags my pastry and takes my money looks like Anderson Cooper, without the stylists.
Picked up some fruit and cheese from the market. Download some cash from the ATM, which is next to a bank of overfull dumpsters with a pool of nasty seepage puddled on the sidewalk and paper and garbage little everywhere around it. Rome is not dirty, it’s filthy. I would not be surprised if there were outbreaks of cholera and perhaps a touch of plague. I remember thinking it was a little on the slovenly side back in 2004, and thinking it was consistent with being more laid back and easy going than, say, the Swiss. Now, I think it has hit a tipping point. Taxi takes me to the entrance to the Palazzo. The program begins in the reception hall. The voice of the soprano is bright and pure, and a man deftly accompanies her on a lute. They alternate; the art guide speaks about the architecture and artwork, the soprano tells us about the song we are about to hear.
The next stop is in the ballroom, and they perform a lively song about dancing. Then we pause in front of a large painting of an Italian family being entertained by musicians at dinner, a particularly apt pairing.The song performed before the three Caravaggio’s is particularly melancholy and achingly lovely. The title is something about beautiful hair and the soprano tells us it was chosen because of the woman who anointed the feet of Christ with perfume and dried them with her hair. I remembered reading that in the Bible but it had never seemed so blatantly erotic until today. Blame it on Caravaggio.There a final concert in a private room, and I was impressed by the musician’s fingering technique.

Spent time afterward walking the halls, just looking. Saw this adorable Brueghel tucked in a corner. Good dog.Asked a passing tourist to take my photo near the lemon trees in the courtyard.  I expected to see doves and an eagles nesting.

Walked to lunch at Emma. Had stuffed artichoke and ravioli, while I drew the Belvedere torso. Okay, but no replacement for Valentino. Bought a pale blue hoodie I’d seen in a window for a couple of weeks, found a blue and yellow silk scarf I was powerless to resist, a few pastries from Roscioli later, taxied back to the apartment by a hardcore WWE fan. WWE Live is coming to Rome May 3 and he’s got his tickets. He was bouncing behind the wheel with excitement. Sure, I’ll trade him Seth Rollins for Caravaggio.

Annie, Queen of Scooteroma Tours, was outside my apartment door at 10am, ready to ride. A spunky Minnesotan with an inexhaustible and encyclopedic knowledge of Rome, she handled her Vespa like the pro she is. I awkwardly clambered up behind her – the last time I rode a motorcycle Robert and I were courting – but by the end of the tour, I could throw my leg over and hop on in a trice. She was kitted out in knee-high black motorcycle boots, jeans and a fitted black leather jacket with just enough zippers to be badass. In her case, a perky badass.

She strapped on my helmet like a mama dressing her bambina and we hit the road. Sunday was a great choice traffic-wise. We zipped up and down the seven hills, Annie chatting away, putting what I was seeing into context. She drove, talked, gesticulated like a native Italian, and didn’t miss a beat.  She told me all Vespa tour guides gesture with their left hands because the right-hand controls the scooter.
We flew past the Baths Of Caracalla and I caught a whiff of new mown grass, so fresh. A moment late I saw grass clippings on a verge. Spring!
One street ended with a sliver of the coliseum framed at the vanishing point. I felt like a time traveler, and thought, this is my postcard memory of Rome. Here’s a taste of what the ride was like, crossing the Cobra Bridge.

I’d opted for the street art tour of Rome. We cruised around Ostiense and stopped in a side street for Jb Rock’s Wall of Fame. Faces are lined up in A to Z order; Dante Alighieri to a self-portrait of the artist in a Zorro mask. M stands for his Mama.
These are people who had influenced the artist, thus Quentin Tarantino shared wall space with the artist’s mother and Obama. The building facing it was painted a year later by Sten&Lex, six portraits that represent the people who actually live in the neighborhood. This one reminded me of my Mama.
From there we walked over to a wall in front of gas works to see Paint over the Cracks by Kid Acne.I’d already viewed the rainbow of aliens on a building painted by BLU, when Robert and I visited the Centrale Montimartini Museum, but I hadn’t seen his surreal ship on the end. I think he’s saying the Capitalist ship of state is going down like the Titanic.All this art with a purpose posted on the streets got me thinking about the Tabernacoli, little shrines with saints or the Virgin niches set in the street corners,  invoking protection, or in gratitude for prayers answered, or for grace received. Hundreds of years later and you still see fresh flowers and candles on the ledges of these little altars. They are like votive candles of faith and hope, lit against the darkness.
Graffiti is found everywhere in Rome, ranging from scrawled tags, as cheap and easy as torn fishnet tights, to the cri de coeur of politicized pop culture artists with exceptional ability, a la Banksy **  It would be interesting to map the Tabernacoli and the street art – not the ubiquitous tags, the interestingly subversive work.
Like all good things, my scooter tour came to an end. At my request, we finished with a ride up Janiculum hill where I contemplated Rome, spread before me like a banquet.
Annie dropped me off in the Jewish quarter. She’s made me a map with notations of places we’d seen and others I want to visit. She has a great lead on an optician’s shop. I picked up a slice of pizza from Roscioli and savored it on my stroll back to the apartment.

Buzzing through Rome on the back of a Vespa was a terrific addition to my experience of Rome. It’s an pleasure I urge you not to miss. Go for it!

**“Graffiti has been used to start revolutions, stop wars and generally is the voice of people who aren’ t listened to. Graffiti is one of the few tools you have if you have almost nothing. And even if you don’ t come up with a picture to cure world poverty you can make someone smile while they’re having a piss.” Banging Your Head against a Brick Wall, by Bansky

Monday was the vernal equinox. Little green parrots chased each other around the Vatican gardens, shrieking with twitter-pated glee. As Emily Dickinson said, “A little Madness in the Spring / Is wholesome even for the King.”
I sprinted through the Vatican halls at 8am like I was Usain Bolt and someone fired the starting pistol for the 2oo meter. It took me seven minutes, from the ticket-activated spindle bar entry down the virtually empty cartography hall, blasting country music through my earbuds. George Strait (Run), Michael Ray (Think a Little Less), Justin Moore (How I got to Be This Way)  galloped with me. Thanks for the momentum, boys. 
I whisked through the Sistine Chapel and, sure enough, had an uninterrupted hour with a bare trickle of tourists and zero tour groups jostling my shoulder to examine gorgeously painted library cupboard doors;

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Elaborate prie-dieu;

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Some remarkable reliquaries, like this gorgeous thing;

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These examples of boxes I wished I could pick up and examine closely;

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One answer to the oft-asked question, what do you give the man who had everything? I love how the Vatican garden reflected on the glass case surrounding this golden basilica.
There was plenty of other popernanalia, and I took my time, dancing my way down the hallowed marble halls along with Jon Pardi (Dirt on My Boots), and Sam Hunt (Body Like  Back Road), feeling nothing but gratitude and appreciation. Don’t judge.
In the gift shop, that museum visitors worldwide must exit through, the library door was open. Naturally, I looked in. Oh lord. Talk about my idea of holy. I didn’t trespass, just craned my neck a bit, stared with reverence, and took a few discreet photos. The walls of the ‘gift shop’ would drive a minimalist mad. Zen masters need not apply. Suits me fine.

I think of Fra Angelico painting his brother’s cells in San Marco, the Dominican monastery in Florence. He must’ve made Savonarola itch, bestowing all that distracting beauty left and right. Serves Mr. Bonfire of the Vanities right.
I went to the courtyard and relaxed on a bench near the bronze sculpture by Arnaldo Pomodoro, Sfera con Sfera, the fractured sphere inside a sphere that tour guides push and swivel to liven up their presentations. It’s one of the few modern works at the Vatican that I appreciate. I took out my pencil and drew Michelangelo’s Adam on a card. This is how I decompress after having my senses assaulted by so much richness.Bonus: I found out it costs the same to mail a letter as it does to mail a postcard. I’ll be sending more of those.
By now it was 11:30, and I did a little trinket shopping – with my 30% patron discount it’s almost painless. Walked back to the apartment, thinking I’d visit a few churches after I dropped off my packages. Checking my Theory of Everything list, and realized the churches I wanted to visit were closed from 12:30 until 3:30 or 4pm. I made myself lunch, edited a blog post and … fell sound asleep. Woke up at 5pm, and on a whim walked to the Angel bridge where I stood and drew until dusk fell and the bridge lights came on. Walked back in the dark of 6:30, but it too early to eat – only bar food.  At 8, I trudged back out for dinner at a well-reviewed restaurant. What the heck. I won’t name it, because it was a dismal experience but it was not really their fault. I was yawning and bored. Just hated it. I’d much rather have been in my jammies, reading a book or listening to Mary Beard explain Caligula. I won’t go out at night to eat again.

 

I spent my morning in the octagonal courtyard of the Pio Clementino Museum, where Laocoön and His Sons resides along with the Belvedere Apollo and the River God Arno. Famous dudes. I drew a postcard, of a lion with teeth and claws sunk into the neck of a horse that’s buckled to its knees.

Time flew away. Eventually I stopped trying to improve that sketch and move to another bench to draw a guard dog. I love this canine. Maybe I just miss my dog, (hi Maddy!) maybe because dogs are loyal and sincere. Not like, say, the Belverdere Apollo. So celebrated as an ideal of perfection, so pretty, so flawless, and such a sore winner that he skinned alive the satyr Marsyas for daring to compete with him and subsequently losing an impromptu Greek’s Got Talent contest. Marsyas was strung up and flayed even though he was in the thrall of an enchanted flute. Where was that glint of viciousness in all those pretty depictions of Apollo’s perfection?  I have really taken Apollo into dislike over the last few weeks. Don’t get me started on his decision to pursue and rape Daphne.But I digress. As I packed up my pencil, I was grateful the museum guards have not objected to my humble activity. It occurred to me the guards have the same job as the dogs. Guardians.I also adored this mosaic fragment mounted over a door. Roman rodeo. Yeehaw! Crank up the country.I hauled a bag of laundry to a place on the landlord’s map. When I inquired earlier, the owner said it was 4 euros wash 2 euros dry, now he asked for 20 euros. Really? He first tried to claim it had to be washed separately. Nope, it’s all gray and black. He switched to saying it’s too many items, he will need to use two machines to wash and four machines to dry. It doesn’t fill up a pillow case. That’s not what you said before, I pointed out. He drops to 18 euros and I cave. I look the place up on Google afterward and sure enough, he is called out as a cheat. I should have checked online first, but I relied on the landlord’s recommendation.

Took a white taxi to see Caravaggio’s trio of paintings on the life of St. Matthew in the Contarelli Chapel within the church of San Luigi dei Francesi. It was my most vivid memory of my first trip to Rome; walking to the end of a dimly lit aisle early one morning, putting a euro in the light box and being stunned when the painting sprang into view. I thought it looked as vivid and richly colored as the day Caravaggio put down his brush.
It was still glorious, an astonishing achievement that was explosive in its visual force. The difference between my memory and reality was the entire church was much more ornate and decorated than my memory suggested, recalling only dim light and cold, gray stone. And the time of day means the painting was lit by sunlight in a way that emphasized Caravaggio’s composition. Matthew was smote by a beam of sunlight as he was summoned to follow Christ.Across the church on the right, facing a different chapel. was a pair of benches, a candle stand and a notice that this was a place to pray for the victims of the attacks. I lit a candle, and I said my prayers. My doleful thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a school class field trip. Bored and antsy, the incense of impatience wafts from them along with the vitality of youth.
Afterward I walk over to look at eyeglasses Via della Scrofa, 54-55 and buy two pairs. I’ve been seeking silver frames for three years now. I found a dainty pair here, with a discreet rivet pattern embellishment. I also purchased a super bendy, faux tortoiseshell pair with magnetized snap-on sunglasses. The total fail of the single prescription (vs progressive lenses) sunglasses I can’t read with, drives this sale. I’m considering a third pair in pink.Walked to the Napoleonic Museum, Piazza di Ponte Umberto I, 1, 00186, a small museum set up by his descendants. It’s bits and bobs mostly, but it’s free. It demonstrated how the mighty have fallen by what wasn’t shown; there’s nothing imperial about it.  The best part was a lavishly embroidered pair of his sister’s slippers. Trés jolie.and an exhibit of miniature mosaic work, including a demonstration of the process.

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That was fascinating. I wish I had a few decades of better eyesight ahead of me. I am greedy for more. I thought about taking up weaving the other day, when I passed a loom. Ay me.

My lunch was melon and prosciutto, followed by pasta alle vongele while listening to Louie, Louie over the restaurant’s speakers. It’s a local place, Amalfi. I was seated in the back alone, which suited me fine. The pasta was oddly tasteless – I expected garlic at least. Asked for salt and pepper.  I thought, if it wasn’t for artichokes and melon I’d have scurvy.Little did I suspect I was ingesting an engine of intestinal destruction. I left, ready to pick up my over-priced but clean laundry and call it a day.

Back at the apartment I lay down and took a short nap. Woke up with a belly ache that got much worse before it got better.