As the taxi cab slides to a halt outside the Hotel Excelsior, Piero, Luca and I unfold our cramped limbs from the back seat and make a woeful attempt to look chic. It has been a long journey and we are, to put it charitably, bedraggled.
But The Eternal City casts a glittering spell on even its weariest pilgrims.
But The Eternal City casts a glittering spell on even its weariest pilgrims.
(Excelsior Hotel, Rome, December 2012. All photos by LBG.)
By the time we head for the elevator a few minutes later, there's a spring in our step and our chins are tilted at a rakish angle. Fatigue be damned. Who could be so unfeeling to let down a lobby that has gone to such effort?
We stroll along the fabled Via Veneto in search of adventure. The streets are empty and our footsteps echo on the cobblestones. Piero hears distant laughter and decides we need to follow it.
We turn a dark corner and run headlong into Harry's Bar, spiritual birthplace of la dolce vita. I know it's probably the wooziness of jet lag, but it suddenly feels like we're in the real-life version of "Midnight in Paris." I swear that's Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg making out in the corner. A ghostly maitre'd (I'm not kidding -- look at him) crooks his finger at us from a golden doorway. Within minutes, we are sipping Bellinis and everything is bene.
The next morning we awake to the tintinnabulation of bells from that church tower on the left...
...and have breakfast in this chic-y McChic downstairs bar.
After much tarrying on my part --
Me: Just let me sit here for five more minutes.
The Philistines: You said that ten minutes ago.
Me: I would like one more lungo macchiato.
The Philistines: No you would not.
Me: I feel weak.
The Philistines: No you do not feel weak.
Me: But this room is a veritable MASTER CLASS in design, I tell you! Have you NO DECENCY, SIRS?!
-- I am firmly escorted out.
...and have breakfast in this chic-y McChic downstairs bar.
After much tarrying on my part --
Me: Just let me sit here for five more minutes.
The Philistines: You said that ten minutes ago.
Me: I would like one more lungo macchiato.
The Philistines: No you would not.
Me: I feel weak.
The Philistines: No you do not feel weak.
Me: But this room is a veritable MASTER CLASS in design, I tell you! Have you NO DECENCY, SIRS?!
-- I am firmly escorted out.
We take a shortcut along this street that Luca renames "Crispy Frank"...
...and arrive at the top of the Spanish Steps. Lovers of John Keats will know that he met his untimely demise in the third terra cotta palazzo on the left. (And that you can rent the apartment directly above it here.)
...and arrive at the top of the Spanish Steps. Lovers of John Keats will know that he met his untimely demise in the third terra cotta palazzo on the left. (And that you can rent the apartment directly above it here.)
After tossing a good luck coin in the Trevi Fountain, Piero and I put ourselves in the capable hands of our fifth grade tour guide who is a newfound expert on Roman history.
We walk through the Forum and listen to him expound upon the days when this ancient shopping mall was crammed with toga-clad citizens clamoring for bargains. (He might not have used those exact words.)
What is there to say about the Coliseum except that no matter how many times you see it, it still takes your breath away?
Our tour guide is especially enthralled by the maze of underground tunnels and chambers which housed all the gladiators and wild animals before the shows.
What are these, you ask? Why, they would be terra cotta oil lamps, the precursor of holding up your lighter (or your iPhone) at a concert. "Freebird" meets "Free Maximus."
Then it's over to the Piazza Navona to get lost in the kaleidoscopic profusion of Christmas stalls. A biscotti-sized woman sees my camera and inexplicably freezes. I find her feet adorably enormous.
We duck into a cafe for lunch and I order a drink my friend Stephanie has been raving about since her last trip to Italy: Amaro with prosecco. It's fabuloso.
The next day we cross the Tiber on our way to Vatican City. Admittedly, it's not the Seine, but I do think it possesses a certain faded majesty.
Anyway, beauty's where you find it. I refocus my lens and the river gains the shimmering emotion of an Impressionist painting.
Our tour guide has just informed us that we have officially crossed into another country.
We step in with a flock of excited nuns heading in the same direction. When we get to the Vatican, we pay a guide to take us to the front of the line, figuring we can head off the crowds this way.
But guess what? We are wrong. The crowd already inside is overwhelming. That's my husband on the right looking for an escape route. But there is no escape route. There is only one direction through the Vatican and 20,000 people are trying to shoulder their way ahead of us. I'm not going to soft-coat it: it feels like trying to exit the Titanic. I've been here before and have never seen it like this. (Note to self: In future, avoid religious sites on high holy days.)
By the time we reach the Sistine Chapel, we are in need of salvation. Fortunately, there is an exit door.
Back on the street, we encounter a Holy Hunk (d0 you think the nuns were tempted?)...
...and a miracle of sorts.
Next Monday: You. Me. London. Snap.
