Slept until past 8 after staying up past midnight….again. I have fallen into the habit of ‘one more chapter.’ No idea how I kept my eyes open after my long day, but somehow I did. My hips ached and even my feet hurt from yesterday, my neck had a crick in it. I could use a low key, do nothing day. But how do you turn your back on the banquet that is Rome?

Here’s how I did it – I lingered in bed with a mug of tea and sized photos for the blog I was a week behind on, did some internet housekeeping, and made a short video of the view from my balcony. From here Rome looks like a 2000-year-old game of Tetris.

Time flew by.  It was after 11 before I took a shower, got dressed, and toted my laundry down to the local laundromat. Five euros less than the guys in Prati.
My daughter sent me a WhatsApp text letting me know I’d inadvertently pocket-dialed her, and that she heard me saying “Life is great.”  I am so tickled that that’s the kind of thing I’m caught saying. On that tangent; it would please me greatly if my progeny followed my example when they are in their sixties, stay curious about whatever interests them in the wide world and go exploring. Just putting it out there!
I got another WhatsApp from my spouse, about the 1-85 bridge collapse from a fire. Miraculously, no injuries. I briefly wondered just how gridlocked Atlanta is. Then I thought how blessedly, completely unconnected from the news I’ve been. For this tender mercy, I thank the compassionate God of my understanding.
I walked to lunch at Trattoria Valentino and looked very carefully but there was no sign on the street to indicate the name of the establishment, yet they never lack for clientele. If I had any Italian, I’d ask about that. Instead, I just bask in their welcome. This time I managed to communicate that I’d like something with red sauce and he indicated it was not on the chalk menu but he would make it for me. By golly, he did. Pancetta and tomatoes are all I could identify, but it was delicious. His pasta hits the sweet spot of al dente for me, between limp and stiff as a bundle of twigs. Yeah, that’s happened a couple of times. I read a novel on my Kindle app, and drew a few postcards.
My route back to the hotel detoured by Fatamorgana. Sososo good. I peered in windows and saw this Banksy rip-off on a mug. Mugged. Heh.

I ambled back to the hotel, finished my drawing of MB’s Adam leaving Eden, the serpent offering the apple.Meandered back to pick up my laundry. Bought a very nice taupe gray belt from the quiet, patient man who’d made it. Check out this wall of buckles.Finished the excellent  A Lady’s Code of Misconduct by Meredith Duran and am hoping to pull the plug and go to sleep by at 10pm

Tomorrow, the Barbarini and a tour of the private apartments.

Stopped in Bar La Licata Via dei Serpenti, 165, en route to a day dedicated to covering every room in the Capitoline. Nice cappuccino and I scooped up a panino in case I decided to picnic in a courtyard. I arrived in a great mood only to find a line. Yeesh. A tour group of students were sitting in a row on the steps and drawing in sketchbooks. It lightened my heart. It makes me happy to know that no matter how blinded by hormones and ravaged by the need to be cool, this day they will look carefully look and what they see will get in under the radar. Art is like that. Hand-eye, that goes deeper than language.I waited in line, grateful I had an audio Terry Pratchett novel for company. After I got my ticket and ipad guide I moved to the next line to go through the single security point. There were two massive student groups ahead of me and a gaggle of elderly tourists, who seemed confused about how to place a shoulder bag on a conveyer belt. I gnashed my teeth just a little bit. Luck of the draw. It was starting to get hot, in the seventies, and I could feel my nose pinking up. Other northern tourists were starting to fry, their pale upper arms turning the color of boiled crustaceans. I may be leaving Rome with farmer’s tan.
Got through into the first courtyard about 45 minutes after I arrived. Never was I so grateful for all the strategizing I do to minimize the time I stand in line. I started with the painting galleries, and here are only a few of its wonders. The only red-haired John the Baptist I’ve ever seen.
This Rape of Europa is not the first version of the myth I’ve seen, but definitely boasts the most seductive bull. Check out what he’s doing with his tongue.

But what really got under my skin were the rows of faces underneath the obligatory intimidating and braggadocio scenes on the walls of the Hall of Horatii and Curiatii. 

That band underneath the main paintings is a series of faces like these. They are called grotesques and possibly copied from older Roman villas.

Drew a postcard featuring two of these, and I am still wondering about the reason for depicting desperate, baffled looking women and depraved male demons. If there’s an art historian out there who has a clue, please, fill me in.
A few hours later I moved to the underground corridor, reading with interest with the grave markers I’d been introduced to by the incomparable Mary Beard series. This one for a five-year-old girl choked me up.I made my way to the remains of the underground temple, and the marvelous view of the forum. Almost no one is there, I saw six other intrepid people in an hour, and it was marvelously cool. Word to wise, if you are coming here in the heat of summer, this is an excellent refuge.

I walked slowly through two floors of sculpture and was worn to a nub by the time I left. I haven’t felt this physically whipped since the first week. I may have overdone it today. I’ll be back to do half as much, in twice the time.
Back at the hotel I collapsed on the balcony and watched a sliver of a moon rise over the rooftops. 

This is why I make the effort to keep up the blog. When I re-read the entries, they rouse my memories and the more detail I include, the more vividly it all comes back.

I walked into an open door marked Free Entry only because Google wanted me to fly over a stone wall and walk down an invisible road. Military museum, I deduced from the submarine, humongous anchor, and half a dozen young men in camo. I turned right to the first room, just to be polite, and I realized I’d just stumbled across the motherload. Multiple cases with dozens of ornate presentation boxes, some with the documents, some with flags, all with identifying placards.  Thanks to a friendly young military man I learned they were commemorative boxes for ships lost in combat. A poster said there’s a downloadable app with guides to the collection in English, but it wouldn’t work for me or the helpful young man. No worries, I’ll tackle it with Google Chrome later.
But let’s talk about the boxes! From the extremely ornate to the sleek, different in size and material. There were six glass cases with three levels of shelves and large base cabinets. Helpful signs with images of all the boxes on display in the cabinet. This was what I searched for in the Vatican, hoping, wrongly, they’d have a deep collection of reliquaries.
This was an unexpected gift, wrapped up and delivered to me. Took some quick photos.

I’ll return to photograph and sketch some of them more carefully. By the way, this museum is the cleanest environment I’ve seen in the city; dusted, mopped, fresh smelling and not one single piece of trash in sight, no so much as a gum wrapper, nothing. Just to say.
Feeling jubilant, and rearranging my travel schedule in my head, I sauntered into the Capitoline museum. I didn’t remember much from my visit back in 2004 – just an impression of musty rooms, the twins suckling the she-wolf, the copy of Marcus Aurelius on his horse, and the colossal bronze fragments of Constantino. Boy, does my memory suck, or there’s been a vast improvement. I’ll start with the iPad guide. It gets full marks for ease of use, and a good balance of entertainment and education. The well-spaced exhibits are attractively presented in a way that makes visual sense. I enjoyed this golden Heracles, and this surprisingly modern-looking fresco of the madonna.

I visited the temporary exhibit on Da Vinci’s research of flight. There were screens with the contents translated for the English language visitor. I confess, I’m more enamored with the artist that the scientist, so I was charmed by this red chalk face in the midst of his Codex writings on flight. I think it might be a self-portrait. I quickly realized the Capitoline would repay multiple visits. More fun. I ate a reasonably edible museum restaurant meal on the terrace, worth is just for the view. I wolfed down mozzarella and prosciutto and figured out I will have more than enough to examine here or at the Barberini until I get on the plane. I briefly regretted I did not get here sooner, but if I had almost everything else would have been an anticlimax, so two weeks is perfect.

I didn’t leave until late, physically worn out from the long day, but happy happy happy.
Charmed life.

 

I rolled out of the white taxi at 10:50am for the 11am slot I’d reserved on the website. I expected lots of lingering in line given my first experience with the 9am slot, but not so. I hopped from ticket pickup to backpack drop off and was galloping up the stairs lickety-split. I did a u-turn and headed for the first floor, aimed for Bernini. En route I flirted with my favorite brilliant, subversive bad boy, Caravaggio. A classic case of tortured, talented drunk. That’s his self-portrait on Goliath’s face, hanging from David’s fist by his hair. I wish there’d been rehab back in his day.

I asked a passing tourist to take my photo with Leda and her feathered lover.

Next I admired Bernini’s Persephone being carried off by Hades. It’s the first time I really saw the demented, gleeful expression of this brute god. He clearly relishes his capture of such a prize.  Her horror and despair don’t signify. What I’ve never forgotten was the way Bernini carved the harsh, hard grip of the god by the dents under his fingers in her soft thigh. She struggles, but she’s doomed. I hope the slavering, three-headed dog Cerberus gives her some comfort in the dark Underworld.
I miss you, Maddy!
I noticed the mosaic floor wasn’t frolicking sea creatures, it’s gladiators, which throws me straight to Lucius Verenus and the redoubtable Pullo. 13! !3!
I thought I was casing the joint, deciding what to sketch /look at a long time closely, but the moment I looked up at Daphne and Apollo (the wretch – I really have it in for him for some reason. Pretty, but what a thug,) that was it. I was all in. I stood in a corner, withstanding the surges of tourists, and scrawled away until I was knocked out of the contemplative head space sketching throws me into by the announcing that time was up, time to get out.
I packed up my pencils and realized I’d lost one of my pink cashmere mittens. Dang. I went to look for it, though the guards were very skeptical, they permitted a quick look around. No luck. But my luck changed when I made it to the ground floor, asked if they had a lost & found and the guard produced, like magic, my pink glove. Lucky!

I’d taken note of the nearby taxi rank that morning, so I walked through the park to it, and hopped.  It took me a second to realize the back seat was filled with glitter. The driver looked back and told me his last fare was a bridal party.  I was in a corner that escaped the glitter zone, a good thing given my black denim jeans. I had another good meal at Valentino’s It really feels like home. Glad I’m on this side of town now. Walked back to the hotel, stopping for an apple and some dried fruit and saw this gem in the racks.

Gluten Free!

Walked through a market on my way to Santa Maria Della Vittoria and noticed a heap of kitty coin purses. I’ve used one for years until it’s nearly as soft as tissue. The vendor asked 5 euros for one. To my own surprise, I successfully bartered the cost down to 3, mostly by shaking my head and starting to walk on. Yippee.
Further along my route, I passed a courtyard, which reminded me of all those southern roadside stands selling concrete garden tchotchkes. Alas, no way will I be toting any of this home in my luggage.I’ve been looking forward to visiting Santa Maria Della Vittoria, shrine to Bernini’s genius, since I knew I was coming back to Rome. Bernini threw everything he had at the Ecstasy of Saint Teresa; sculpture, stucco, gilding, stained glass, paint, and colored marble. He used every skill he’d acquired as a sculptor, architect, playwright, and dramatist. He put his knowledge of stagecraft in the service of spirituality, and his own professional redemption. This pulled him out of the scandal he was mired in, and put him back on top. **
In the center, a dimpled angel of great personal charm, aims his spear at the breast of the swooning mystic. The cloistered nun Teresa of Avila is in the throes of a mystical vision. Gold rays point to the pair who appear to float, and boxes on the walls on either side hold watchful, seated figures. One of them is the patron who paid for this, Federico Cornaro, Cardinal of Venice. I’m sure he appreciated the view.
Let’s pause to acknowledge Bernini was inspired by Teresa’s own account, though this is no middle-aged, visionary nun. He sculpted a woman of perfect beauty with heavy-lidded eyes and parted lips in a face even more glorious than the angel’s. That said, she wrote,“Very close to me… an angel appeared in human form… he was not tall… but very beautiful and his face was so aflame that he appeared like one of those superior angels who look as though they are completely on fire… In his hands I saw a large golden spear and at its iron tip there seemed to be a point of fire. I felt as if he plunged this into my heart several times so that it penetrated all the way to my entrails. When he drew it out he seemed to draw them out with it and left me totally inflamed with a great love for God. The pain was so severe that it made me moan several times. The sweetness of this intense pain is so extreme that there is no wanting it to end and the soul is satisfied with nothing less than God. The pain is not physical but spiritual even though the body has a share in it – in fact a large share in it.”
Bernini knocked it out of the park – the swooning saint in an orgasmic full body seizure of rapture, the dimpled angel delicately pulling aside her fluttering robe to better aim of his shaft, the avid male spectators, watching the writhing, moaning nun from both sides. All the while, light waxes and wanes through a hidden aperture in the wall of the church, spotlighting Teresa’s supreme moment. Bam!I hung around for over an hour. It was a cool blustery overcast morning, and the light was changeable.

Art historians and critics insist it could not possibly, conceivably be exactly what it looks like, a woman experiencing the cumulation of coitus. Oh no. Absolutely not. It’s a metaphor, a representation of purely spiritual bliss. Nothing earthy, nothing lubricious about it. No way in that era would anyone’s mind stray to carnal experience. Even though this woman’s face and body precisely, exactly mirrors wanton sexual bliss, they refuse to consider Bernini’s mind could have been on anything other than the purely ethereal love of God.
Fine, sure, whatever. I call bullshit. I say metaphor, schmetaphor. This is an accurate depiction of female erotic rapture.
You disagree? Tant pis. I’m in accord with French aristocrat and wit Chevalier de Brosses, who commented, “Well, if that’s divine love, I know all about it.”  Hey, it’s a point in Bernini’s favor that he’d inspired orgasms in women often enough to be able to depict one accurately.
As long as I am on blasphemous topics, imagine what Bernini might have wrought, given the scriptural description of Mary’s experience of impregnation.
“And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.” Mary replies, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” Afterward, Mary says, “For he that is mighty hath done to me great things…”
Just pause for a moment, and imagine what Bernini would envision.
I wish I could tell you my experience with this pinnacle of the sculptural art, be it mystic vision or sensual rapture, was sublime and raised my thoughts to salvation.
Not really. I was a still point in a swirling rush of multiple tour groups, mostly teenagers on field trips. They tittered and sniggered as only young people, who have recently discovered the existence of sex and think they’ve invented it, will do. They paraded past the chapel, prodded by chaperones, or drifted in clumps, gossiping, tossing their hair (girls) kicking each other covertly (boys). Sadly, most of them kept their backs to the Bernini. I don’t know if they were indifferent or embarrassed.
Clusters of elderly foreign tourists led by guides were more earnest, attending to their guides, dutifully gazed at the tableau, pretending the mildly detached interest of non-combatants.
After an hour I’d had the opportunity to investigate the rest of the interior, the kind of ornate, over-the-top decor that put the OMG into RocOMGco. Like, the ceiling, other chapels of beautifully rendered statuary.By noon it was time to move on, and on my way to La Matriciana, I passed this Moses and one of half a dozen casually spitting lions on the corner.I haven’t walked far before I’m shivering. Short sleeve weather turned into raining and chilly. This was the weather I’d expected when I signed on for March. I am grateful it’s been so consistently mild and pleasant. Fortunately, the restaurant wasn’t far, and I again, I dined well.

I had a wonderful time trying to sketch Bernini’s expression of rapture and eating saltimbocca.
Given the weather, I had an abbreviated day. I returned to the St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs and took more time to listen to the audio history of Michelangelo’s conversion of a piece of the Diocletian Bath’s real estate into a Christian Basilica.
**Bernini tried to murder his brother Luigi and broke his ribs with a crowbar for poaching his (married) mistress, Costanza Piccolomini. Worse, he sent a flunky to slash her face with a knife. She ends up festering in prison, charged with adultery for four months. He gets a slap on the wrist (a fine that is later dismissed), a bride, and this commission.**

 

 

Sunday morning was moving day all around. Someone was moving out from an apartment in the building. A vehicle about half the size of a UPS truck, with happy vegetables painted on the cab, was the moving van. Chairs, taped boxes, heaps of stuff were pilled everywhere in the vestibule, halls, and stairwells. It put packing my two suitcases right into perspective.

I got my cash deposit back from the landlord’s spouse and headed out to await Uber. I had some overflow but it all fit in a shopping bag, so I don’t have to buy luggage…yet.
Over the river and through the piazzas to the delightful 15 Keys Hotel on Urbana Street in Monti. I was put in a third-floor room that was filled with light. I could feel my happiness quotient rise as soon as I opened the door. It was cheering to see so many photons dancing around. I also had an instantaneous improvement in the clarity of my vision. The more light, the better my elderly retinas focus. I realized that being in dim apartments for the last four weeks has had an effect on my mood. Instead of Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder, let’s call it Second-floor Affectiveness Disorder.
The room was sleek and well designed. It was comfortable, functional, and reasonably spacious. The bathroom was large by European standards and sparkling clean. There was no funky smell from the drains, no dimness, no rickety extraneous furnishings, no weird light fixtures. The sound-muffling double panes on the windows and tall glass door leading to my balcony worked like a charm. Opened and I heard traffic, people talking, Vespa’s buzzing; your generic noisy city street. Closed, not a whisper. Brilliant! Genius! 5 stars.
After I moved in and unpacked, I headed over toward the Baths of Diocletian, stopping en route to eat lunch. I tried a likely looking restaurant I’d plugged into my GoogleMap of Rome, La Matriciana,Via del Viminale, 44. Boy, did I luck out. They found me a single chair and table near the front door. It turned out I was the last person they could squeeze in. I watched them regretfully turn away more than a dozen parties that did not have reservations. Within ten minutes the place was packed to the rafters, and rocking with the sounds of happy diners talking and laughing. There were two large main rooms, and a wide hall area. I noticed a row of other diners also eating alone, middle-aged men mostly. They all looked stoically homesick. Or maybe just lonely. Single ladies of Rome, take note.
I drew postcards while I waited for service and then for food. No one objected to me scribbling and shading away, for which I was grateful. It was homey but refined; dark wood, big windows, white linen, servers in white jackets. I had a delicious seared cod with artichokes and panna cotta with a strawberry glaze that looked like a crime scene but tasted terrific. I made reservations for the next day, that’s how much I liked it.
Walked to the basilica Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri. I downloaded the app guide as advised at the entrance (modern times!)  Noted mosaics of astrological signs that flanked a line that cleaved a section of the floor.

It turned out to be a meridian line, 45 meters long and composed of bronze edged with yellow-white marble, installed by order of the Pope. I want to come back at noon and see where the sunlight that enters through a hole in the roof strikes the line.
Left the church for another wander through the Baths of Diocletian. (Adding an indecorous note to say what a PIA it was to find a bathroom. I had to ask a guard everytime. My only clue was an almost invisible, pale gray glyph on a door that looked like part of the wall, in a dark back corner alcove).

While I examined Etruscan funerary goods and admired the late afternoon light on the cloister below, I listened to I Shall Wear Midnight, the fourth novel in the Tiffany Aching series. No one is better company in a foreign capital than Terry Pratchett.
Took a walk around my new home base before I returned to my room and decided to try this gelato shop they all rave about, Fatamorgana. OMG! They are not raving, they speak the solemn truth. I gambled on the flavor Thumbelina.  It was so freaking delicious, it instantly replaced my all time favorite gelato flavor, coconut. There really is a difference between the everyday gelato and these concoctions. It’s at the end of my street, people. I must be living right.
Bought a pint of milk and lost my room key card – dropped it on the street.  It was turned in a few minutes after I had to ask reception for a replacement. Good for my humility. The staff was totally cool about it. I think I’m going to like it here.

Friday rolled around, and I was aware that my stay in Prati was nearly over. I took a photo of Caffetteria Ruberto, Via Silla, 16; the coffee bar I stopped in every morning. Good memories there. The lovely Ami, manager of patron relations, was there to greet me when I walked into the Vatican Museum, along with Sarah, the guide for my tour of the Vatican gardens. It worked out great. Sarah is an art historian and we talked about art – its history, purpose, and meaning – while we walked in a beautiful garden in the cool of the morning. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the line in Genesis, “and they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day.”
This is right before Adam and Eve were busted and thrown out of Eden, but all I was thinking was even God likes to walk in a pleasant garden. Fortunately, no flaming swords came for us. It was serene, not another soul in sight, unlike the Lexington Ave at rush hour crush of the museum. That alone was a balm to the spirit. We meandered, paused here and there to admire the view of St. Peter’s dome or inspect the grotto fountains. Turtles sunned themselves below the mosaics and flocks of green parrots darted amongst the palm fronds. We talked about how art is a solace in times of trouble. She asked which artist I admired most, Michelangelo or Raphel, and I went off the reservation with Caravaggio. I showed her that one thread in the St Peter crucified painting and she immediately understood.
She has a theory that the Magdalen in Giotto triptych inspired Raphael, culminating in his Magdalen in the Ascension. Sarah traces Giotto’s image through different works, as painters developed perspective. She also almost convinced me to go to the modern art museum. Perhaps. Maybe. She showed me a photo on her phone of a painting by an artist from the 1930s that almost convinced me. After the garden tour I visited the Giotto triptych and saw what she meant.
I’ll start packing tonight for the move on Sunday, since Saturday my beloved nephew, his bride and three kids are coming to Rome.
I’m pretty sure I’ll need to bust out the duffle bag.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. Dire warnings that due to world leaders coming to Rome to celebrate the anniversary of the Europan Union, Rome would be closed. Not all of the city but a good chunk of the central area, and on top of that four major demonstrations in areas outside of that zone would shut down those sections.
Turned out to be not so bad except the white taxi driver (color of the vehicle, not the operator) charged me double, claiming he’d have to go a longer way back. Huh? I had to walk the last three blocks. Not a prob. I arrived at the spot chosen by my nephew,  Trattoria Vecchia Roma, Via Ferruccio, 12/b/c, 00185 Roma on time if not under budget. William has long been something of a gourmet. He has standards. He learns toward authentic. I am more lackadaisical, but he’s who I call when I want a solid restaurant rec.
It was an adventure. The two older kids, Leonie and Milo, were exceptionally well-behaved, and the baby was a handful. Being cooped up for a long car ride, plus low blood sugar, was a predictably toxic combination. She squirmed and shrieked and ran for the exits every chance she got. It turned out to be the perfect restaurant because 1. it was filled with families and no one batted an eyelash. 2. our server was clearly an experienced Nona who clapped her hands with delight at the bundle of baby angst. One bowl of pasta later and she was, by toddler standards, mellow. Plus, the artichoke alla Romana was divine.
The first time I met my nephew, William was wearing footie pajamas and carrying around a whistling R2D2 toy. Now my nephew is a Pater Familias with salt in his beard, and a fourth baby on the way. I feel as old as Rome. After our meal we walked in a park that would have been lovely if it had not been so neglected. The baby chased pigeons.

I could hear the chanting of the demonstrators,  the coliseum rose up at the end of the street (closed for the EU anniversary shindig.)

After they left, I decided to walk to Santa Maria de Popolo. A beautiful place, though raucous, loudly amped rock music from the street disturbed the peace. I couldn’t find Bernini’s tomb though I looked diligently for it. This one almost made up for it. Really tired by then, I called Uber, and headed back to finish packing.
Tomorrow, I make my move to Monti.

 

 

I was hit with food poisoning Tuesday, like an intestinal version of an IED, and dealt with it Tuesday night, all night. I was sick as a dog. In fact, I was sick as a whole litter of puppies. I stayed in bed Wednesday. This wasn’t something spoiled, this was e-coli territory. Gah. I blamed the person who handled the melon I ate at lunch. But let’s not dwell. I tried to think of it as a chance to catch up on the blog. Mostly, I slept.
Moving right along to Thursday, I walked slowly and carefully to the Vatican Museum doors, headed straight to the painting galleries, eased into a chair in the large, dim Raphael room, and sketched the kneeling Magdalene. The twist of her body and her fierce gaze tugged at me. I wanted to look at her a long time.

It wasn’t a very good sketch – let’s just say I did better with the drapery – but I got what I came for. She steps outside of the sweetness that is Raphael’s main fault and his greatest asset when he’s doing virgins. Wait, that didn’t come out right. Like La Fornarina, she’s colored outside his elegant, graceful lines.
Groups had flowed in and out of the space while I was sketching, and one group of college kids was led by a lively English woman, who was entertaining as hell. She threw herself into capturing their interest and aiming it towards the art. I’ve noticed that the most interesting guides have a theatrical bent and perform their material rather than recite it. No audience is more restive than adolescents and guides that can compel their attention are really good at what they do. I lurked at the edges, shamelessly eavesdropping. Her explanation for the death of Raphael was masterly innuendo. “Let’s just say, penicillin had not yet been invented.”
After Raphael, I moved to the painting of St George. I asked security via Google translate if I could position a chair facing the painting.  One guard shook his head and said no no no and the other came over, smiled and moved the chair for me. You never know, so maybe the lesson is I should just summon up the nerve and ask.
Another mediocre drawing, but I flipped the page and tried a quick sketch of just his head and found it. Sometimes starting over is better than erasing. He reminds me of Robert, of course.  Closing in on 11am and the tours groups were overlapping now. I noticed the room was opened that was been roped off before. I wandered in and found Caravaggio waiting for me. I said a quick prayer of thanks that I hadn’t missed it.

This is an amazing painting, pure Caravaggio with the intensely directed light and the deep, velvety shadows but what I absolutely adore is this thread. I meandered on, not expecting much. Turns out there were another five rooms. I recognized several pieces as works that were displayed at that Scuderie del Quirinale exhibition of items ‘requisitioned’ by Napoleon.  More than one model for Bernini’s angels, made of plaster over a metal and straw support, later cast in bronze. Such humble materials transformed to the sublime. I plonked myself down and drew again. This went better. Sculpture often does. Though I’m still a bit unsteady and my digestion uneasy, I walked toward the pinecone courtyard, which as become my favorite spot to eat a pastry and chill. Parts of the courtyard has been swathed in cloth while renovation work is done, and brought to mind Christo’s installation art. Partially Wrapped Vatican 

 

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.

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.

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;

Elaborate prie-dieu;

Some remarkable reliquaries, like this gorgeous thing;

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

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.