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.

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.