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.