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.
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