Roma--quatro

From my journal July 17, 2012

4pm. Galleria Borghese.
I am nearly dead. I feel that Rick Steves must be some kind of superhero that he thinks it is sensible to walk here from anywhere, really. It's just too hot. And too far. I intended to take a bus from Largo Argentia, but weirdly both sides of the street seemed to feature buses going the wrong way. I asked a guy where to get the bus to Tritone and he told me I should just walk.

So I did, mais ce n'est pas evident du tout since everything involves piazzas and it's very hard to figure out where streets actually go. Plus, I have one of those hotel-style maps which involve the bare minimum of streets. And then there's the sign thing they do here--for these major tourist sites, they will have a small sign with an arrow on a major street, after which I guess they figure you'll just intuit your way through the twisting cobbled streets to find it. Perhaps several signs? Just an idea. In any case, I did finally happen upon the Pantheon, which has an opening at the top through which sun streams in. It's quite impressive. Then, by some miracle, I found the Trevi Fountain. And there it was being famous. And there I was seeing it. I made a wish.

From there, it is a significant walk to get here. It's strange to walk up what is basically the Champs Elysees of Rome (complete with Harry's Bar) while sweating profusely and feeling like an almost-bursting tomato. I'm not quite as bella as I imagined I'd be. Meanwhile, actual Romans look sexy all the time. They appear not to sweat.

*******

The Galleria Borghese proved to be filled with breathtaking pieces. That Bernini knew a thing or two about sculpture, as it turns out. Also, I'd say, a thing or two about human emotion. You know who else was no slouch? Caravaggio. Si. È vero.

God bless whoever came up with the reservation system so that only 350 people are allowed in for a two-hour period. This allows you the physical space to actually see things and (dare I be terribly Californian about the whole thing?) the psychic space to actually feel something about what you're seeing. Ahem. I'm looking at you, Vatican Museum.

Also, as a bonus for small-breasted, very white, round-stomached women such as myself, a trip to the Borghese leaves you feeling that it's not so much that you're out of shape, it's more that you're out of step with the current ideals of, say, fitness-obsessed San Francisco. You are classical in form. Indeed, you would have probably been quite the dream girl of the 1600's.

Telling it on Tuesday

Are you my secret admirer? Do you live in the Bay Area? Are you not planning to kill me or do anything at all creepy? Great!

In that case, I feel able to tell you that I'm doing this show next Tuesday, August 28. Come on out.

Roma--tre

During the first two days of my stay in the magical apartment, the building's front door was being reinstalled, which is to say, there was no front door. In the evenings, the workmen would stretch a kind of plasticy mesh thing over the doorway, mostly nailed in place. This meant that there was not a very large opening through which to come and go. Going out, I was obliged to sort of crouch down and burst forth into the busy pedestrian street: ta da! It was dramatic. I'll give it that. Coming home at night, it was a stealthier maneuver. Walking down the street, walking down the street, lift corner of netting, and pow! disappear. It was like being on the lam. On the whole, I enjoyed it.

I mention this mostly to prove that I did actually go out from time to time. I went to the Colisseum, which was quite awe-inspiring and I had a very lovely guide and learned interesting ancient facts. Guess what? I'm not going to tell you anything about it. You can go there; it will be better that way. You're welcome. Several times during the tour, I was pretty sure I was going to faint, though, happily, I never did. Eat before you go. Take water. Wear a hat. (I did wear a hat, though I failed on the other two fronts. However, had I not been wearing the hat, I might currently be dead.)

The shoes of my dreams

Do you have dreams in which you own or somehow have access to clothes that delight you and then you wake, only to discover that that dress/blouse/suit was woven of nothing but imagination? It's a little bit heartbreaking, so if you've not experienced it, don't be sorry. I have these dreams periodically and the disappointment upon waking does not lessen over the years.

Last night I dreamed that I was in New York and passed a large shoe store with a rack of shoes out on the sidewalk. I picked one up and tried it on and it it me perfectly. Perfectly. I think this may be a fairly routine experience for many people, but shoes do not ever fit me perfectly; it's a cause of considerable angst in my life, in fact.

I went into the store to ask for the mate of the miracle shoe--a modified brogue with laces and a smart little heel. A trim, elegant shoe. And that is when the lady revealed that the shoe was so comfortable and cushiony because she had put several individually-wrapped cookies inside the display model. I was sorry that had accidentally crushed the cookies, but also wondered where I could get more because they made shoes so much like slippers. She told me that they were imported from Italy and showed me a large box of them. She was having trouble finding the mate to the perfect shoe and held up numerous other, ugly options. "Questo?" she asked, "Questo?" because suddenly she was Italian American. "No. Dispiace." I said sheepishly. "Ci sono molte scarpe qui non mi piace." [No. Sorry. There are many shoes I don't like.]

Do you understand the significance of this, gentle reader? I now speak Italian in my dreams! This is terribly exciting. Sure, it should have been "piacciono" not "piace" but even in the dream I was proud of myself for remembering the word for "shoes," rendering it plural and creating proper adjective agreement. Last year at this time I could not have formed that Italian sentence waking or sleeping. My life officially shows signs of progress. This is very heartening.

On the other hand, flawless footwear and almost correct foreign sentences. Why wake up? Maybe the key to success is to stay asleep.

Roma--due

The vacanza is slipping further and further into the distance and the coverage is getting ever spottier. Mi dispiace.

For me, Rome was really the apartment. I tried to be equally enthusiastic about the cobbled streets over which Caesar himself may have traveled, but the apartment won. If I ever go missing, you might look for me there.

I did occasionally go out and look at famous things, but we don't have to talk about that right now. C'è sempre domani. For now, let's just enjoy the bathtub.