Sunday, July 13... Florence and the Uffizi

Woke up at 8am to the iPhone alarm honking at me like a forklift in reverse. Margaret was already up. I went back to sleep, then wake up at 8:45am. Take shower. Must leave by 9:30 to catch 10:20 train to Florence. Catch a cab on Via Emmanuel, which gets us there in plenty of time. The train station (Termini Station) is VERY crowded for 10am on a Sunday. But what do I know. After a bit of figuring the whole things seems rational enough, and we catch our train. In Europe, the train ticket assigns you a car and a seat, so you always know where to go. This is different than in America, where it is generally a free-for-all of seat grabbing.

After finding our seats, I am suddenly exhausted… physically exhausted. I want to just lay my head down on the table in front of my seat and sleep for the 1.5 hour (we have facing seats, with table in between). The problem is, we have window seats.. so I move to the aisle and hope nobody has a ticket for the seat I commandeer. Unfortunately some guy sits directly across from me, which inhibits me from laying my head down on the table and sleeping, as well as extending my legs (for fear of touching his).  But I try anyway… but not too successfully. This is the typical problem with travel fatigue when you're as tall as I am. The thing is… you can't get comfortable enough to sleep. You would literally have to shoot yourself with an elephant tranquilizer… or seriously overdose on pills… just so that you can finally sleep (pass out, collapse, etc). So you sit/lie/slouch in your seat… too tired for conscious thought… in a dull pain of exhaustion… and unable to do anything about it.

Soon enough we arrive in Florence, and the first order of business is to find a cash machine. Someone tells us there is one down by the McDonalds… and there is… so as Margaret gets some cash, I sit on the ground and lay my back against the suitcase. The physical relief of the lounging is heavenly. The day is cool and breezy. The sky is clear. I start drifting off to sleep while staring at this exotic, dark-skinned East Indian girl as she bitches on her cell phone to god-knows-who. But such bus-stop Arcadian fantasies are short lived, for one must always stay awake and clutching at their belongs, lest some notorious thief steal your passport and money.

We find the taxi stand and the line… though long… moves quickly. The taxi-driver-lottery comes up aces for us, as our cabbie seems nice. As I attempted to remove the duffle from the top of the rolling suitcase, he just grabbed them both and threw them in the back. This is a guy who means business. He zigs-zags across Florence, to the point where I thought he might be extending the ride in order to rip us off. Later, it would become clear to me that the streets of Florence are an impossible warren of alleys, whose navigation was more art than science. Soon enough we arrive at our apartment, which is LITERALLY next door to the Uffizi Gallery. The girl from the real estate office meets us there. She is incredibly nice to us… she even carries one of our heavy bags up THREE FLIGHTS of stairs. Later we would count that there were 65 steps to the top. After long days of walking everywhere in Florence, our eternal reward would be those 65 steps.

Our Uffizi tickets (pre purchased) are timed for 3:30pm. The real estate girl (who is Austrian) walks us over there and rattles off a bunch of Italian questions to the museum staff… who rattle off answers. She then informs us that all our papers are in order, and that when we come back at 3:30 we should go to this particular line. This is unbelievably helpful… the kind of help you read about in books. After we thank her a dozen times, she departs and we take a quick walk about Florence.

I had actually caught a glimpse of the Duomo while the cab zig-zagged us to the apartment. But on our quick walk we go two blocks and are at the Palazzo Vecchio, the colossal town hall of Venice, situated on the vast Piazza Della Signoria. It was in front of the Palazzo Vecchio that Michelangelo's statue of David was originally installed as a symbol of Florentine culture (militarily, artistically, and so on). A copy stands in it's place today, as the original has been moved to the Gallery of the Academy in Florence, to protect it from acid rain. On one side of the Piazza is the Loggia De L'Orcagna, which is a huge vaulted porch-like structure 40 feet high that house many huge sculptures. The Piazza also holds sculptures clustered around the Palazzo.

This particular place is quite famous, and all the objects I just mentioned were long ago installed and have been the subject of other artworks and writings for 500 years. And so it is strange to stand in the very spot that one can see in paintings, and that so little has changed.

We then walk a few blocks and Piazza del Duomo, where the Cathedral of Florence (offically known as the Basilica Santa Maria del Fiore). It is unofficial referred to as the Duomo on account of it's huge dome, famously engineered by Filippo Brunellesch in 1430. The building was begun in 1296 and completed in 1436. That is 140 years. But to see the building is to understand why it took so long. I feel like it is the largest building I have ever seen. This is probably not true, as a skyscraper in New York City probably takes up more volume. But when one considers that the Duomo is made of stone, then it's enormous dimensions become even more significant. It is 167 yard long. Consider that a football field, which is a long field… is only 100 yards long. The width is 98 yards. The height of over the aisles is 75 feet, and the height of the dome is 125 yards, which is the height of a 37 story building.

The Duomo

The Duomo

Now imagine a structure of such hulking and thrusting dimensions, made of stone and assorted masonry with an exterior clad in green and white marble. Now imagine it flanked by a matching bell tower 27 stories tall, and an octagonal baptistery of similar overpower size…. Now further imagine these great buildings dominating a public square, surrounded by 4 story buildings that they dwarf in their close proximity. As you stand there, it's is as if some alien THING has landed in the city and decided to never leave. This THING of immovable stone and marble and tile and concrete and plaster… massive and unmovable. I am in awe of this.





At this point we need to head back to the apartment for a quick break, before getting to the Uffizi for our 3:30 ticket. The break is essential, as we have been running ourselves pretty ragged. The rush to get to the Uffizi is due to it's not being open on Monday, and our need to schedule a whole host of sites into our short time there.

The Uffizi is (by all accounts) one of the top museums of art in the world, and certainly the most significant museum of Italian Renaissance art, bar none. The highlights of the collection literally define the Renaissance, which is not surprising, since the Renaissance is defined by the 15th century Florentines. Of particular note is the extensive collection of works by Botticelli, Fra Filippo Lippi, Filipino Lippi… all masters of the grand and beautiful altar piece and/or allegorical painting.

I found Filippo LIppi and his sone Filipino to be a revelation. The solidity of their compositions and the delicate beauty of their precise style… on the large scale of altarpieces, changed my perception of Renaissance religious art, which I had formerly considered (most often) boring and didactic. The problem was two-fold. First, the environment of Florence (and Rome) provides a rich context for considering the real purpose of the works. Secondly, the works here are the biggest and the best. In the U.S., we have plenty of Renaissance art and religious art… but it is never in context, and it's not usually the best. So it just sits there on the wall like some history lesson.

The Uffizi has nearly a dozen large Botticelli's, including the all-time favorites "The Birth of Venus" and "Primavera". Both of these paintings benefit immensely from being viewed in person, as the large size of the canvas allows one to relate to the figures and in ways not possible in photographs. I found myself really drawn into the strange, fragmented figure groupings in "Primavera"… an in particular the "Three Graces", whose interactions with each other come through powerfully when viewing it in person… whereas I had never felt it via photographic viewing. So this was all very enlightening for me.

I should go back in time here and metion that the very first room you encounter in the Uffizi contains three HUGE paintings (as in 10 feet high), one each by the pre-Renaissance painters Duccio, Cimabue, and Giotto. The paintings are all of the same subject… the Madonna and Child (known as the Maesta). Giotto is understood as the progenitor of Renaissance art, owing to his move away from gothic stylization and toward the kind of naturalism that would emerge in Renaissance painting. The purpose of this room in the Uffizi is to allow one to view the development of this movement, by comparing and contrasting the three painters. One can see that Giotto's Maesta is both cruder (less stylization) but more naturalistic (more realism in modeling the figures) than the other two… whereas both Duccio and Cimabue (though evolving in their own way) are still very much in the stylized approach of gothic art. This room… dominated as it is by these three huge paintings… is very instructive on this often elusive point from art history.

Now moving forward in time again… after the Renaissance art is completed (all contained on the third floor), there exist galleries on the second floor with post-renaissance masterpieces. Oddly, it is somewhat difficult to find these galleries, and (as with the Vatican museum) you could easily exit the Uffizi without seeing them. Three of the more notable paintings in this area are "Baccus" by Caravaggio,  "Judith and Holofernes" by Artemisia Gentileschi, and "Venus of Urbino" by Titian.

Birth of Venus (Botticelli)

Ognissanti Madonna (Giotto)

Madonna and Child (Filippo Lippi)

Primavera (Botticelli)

Judith & Holofernes (Artemisia Gentileshi)

Bacchus (Carravaggio)

Venus of Urbino (Titian)

After three hours in the Uffizi, we walk over the famous Ponte Vecchia bridge and go to a supermarket located on the other side of the Arno River (known as the altrarno.. or "other side of the arno"). This is a similar theme as Trastevere was in Rome. We pick up groceries, go home and crash. Then later we take a long walk and get some gelato. Everywhere we walk, the crowds are glue to the TV sets in cafes, which are showing the final game of the world cup… German vs. Argentina. When we get home, we turn it on too. It is a 0-0 game that have gone into overtime. As the endless futility of the match wheres on, Germany suddenly kicks the ball in the goal. Margaret almost leaps out of her seat in surprise. She says… "He just scored and I saw it". Yes you did, little Margaret. Now sleep tight.

Saturday, July 12th... Chilling in Trastevere

Woke up today at 11am. Margaret is on her way out to the Campo to do some shopping, so I run over to the Goggi art store to buy those brass dividers I saw there. I stop by the Pantheon and went inside again. Strange. Same exact scenario there as on Tuesday. Strange to me, that is… that the scenario should replay itself. The same packed crowds, the same hot sun shining through the oculus into the cool dark space… the same tourists marveling at it all. And yet by simply revisiting I have demythologized some tiny sliver of it. I have some sense of the endless repetition that the building feels. Maybe in two thousand years I can achieve some wisdom too, like the Pantheon. Maybe I can see it all and know it all and transcend it all to the point where I simply ball up into a marble colossus and refuse to move or be moved. The greatest wisdom in the end is that there is no wisdom in the end, simply the cessation of all consideration, and the eternity of existence. At least for the Pantheon.

I meet back up with Margaret and we proceed at the agreed upon more leisurely pace for this, or our last day in Rome. We head back over to Trastevere. Margaret wants to have drink at the palazzo in front of Santa Maria of Trastevere, the aforementioned social center of this area. We find out way there… back across the Ponte Giribaldi, down the boisterous side street lined with cafes, and into the palazzo. Fortunately the church is still open, and we go inside. It is nondescript as far as churches in Rome go… but it has a long history. It is supposed to be the first church in Rome where masses were openly held.

We situate ourselves in a cafe on the far side of the palazzo from the church, and relax into a few drinks. People come and go endlessly. Prime people watching. The harsh, hot sunlight of the early afternoon is beginning to ease off, and the shade we sought in the cafe is no longer strictly necessary. Everything is bathed in light and shade and is perfectly pleasant. It's the kind of moment you want to keep aloft forever. Another drink… a thousand more drinks. Another wink and a nod and a smile… another order to the waiter… another instance of squinting into the sun to make out people coming and going… another everything. But you can't keep moments going forever. I suppose that's what makes them special. The moment you realize you're in a moment, it begins to move away from you… like the picked flower is already faded. The next drink or the next is too intoxicating… the next bit of food feels stuffed… the next person that walks by may not be so interesting as the first… the seat underneath is less comfortable than before… the mind engages one too many thoughts and loses the perfect balance of the simple moment. The scaffolding erected for the construction of moments implodes in on them, and our human nature hastens the demise of our pleasure. Being wise to this, we prefer to leave the moment early while still wanting more, rather than extend the moment by ill advised repetitions of what made it, which only ever sees the moment collapse all about you.

We make our to the other side of Trastevere, in pursuit of another old, historic church… the "Santa Cecelia in Trastevere", a 5th Century church. We get lost in the tiny side streets, whereby we effectively circumnavigate the church without knowing it. The entrance is very non-obvious… the church itself being cloistered behind a giant wall. Inside the nuns are saying later afternoon vespers (prayers) or so we think. I walk solemnly around the church, peering into the many chapel niches. There is no famous art here, though the baroque sculpture "Martyrdom of Saint Cecelia" sits beneath the alter, producing an eerie effect. But more eerie than the severed neck of Cecelia is the solemn procession of nuns down the aisle when their prayers are finished… or how they turn 90 degrees with heads down and disappear into a cloistered area.

We walk back to the Campo, stopping to get yet another serving of gelato. We pack that night, because we have to leave early the next day for Florence. The trip isn't even a week old, and we've spent so much energy. The next 12 hours are gonna be hard again.

Good night.

Friday, July 11th... Borghese Gallery.. Leather.. and Gelato (as always)

Friday is the much anticipated trip to the Borghese Gallery. Part of the anticipation derives from the need to have purchased tickets in advance, and to arrange a particular time. We chose today at noon. We take a taxi owing to the distance, and our fatigue at considering it. Along the way, Margaret recollects the hotel she stayed at in Rome 15 years ago, and also where she ate one time, and also the corner where she buckled her shoe and blew her nose. What a memory!!!

We arrive at the Borghese and are directed to an ambiguous "downstairs" area. We stumble into an underground complex of cafeteria, bookstore, ticket counter, and coat check. We are given a 1pm time, and so we sit and imbibe till then. The rules at the Borghese require that you check all bags… but like all rules here, they are loosely enforced. I spot many backpacks later, in the galleries. This make sense, because how can you enforce rules to the 2 billion tourists who flock in and out every day. The futility of even trying must overwhelm the guards…. who actually seem to care about what they're doing. They seem somewhat proud to oversee the security of national treasures.  Contrast this with the American museum staff, who seem to not even realize what they are doing.

The Borghese houses MANY masterpieces of art, including everyone's favorite… Carravaggio. The Carravaggios including Saint Jerome, St. John the Baptist, "Madonna, Child and Serpent", "Boy With a Basket of Fruit",  and "Bacchus".

Saint Jerome

Madonna, Child and Serpant

Boy with Basket of Fruit

Bacchus

Saint John the Baptist

Also present in the gallery are Titian's "Sacred and Profane Love", Raphael's "Deposition",  Bellini's "Madonna and Child", as well as several huge sculptures by Bernini, including "Appolo and Daphne" and "Rape of Prosperina". Also in the collection is the Conova sculpture of Pauline Bonaparte.

Madonna and Child (Bellini)

Deposition (Raphael)

Pauline Bonapart (Canova)

Sacred and Profane Love (Titian)

Rape of Proserpina (Bernini)

Apollo and Daphne (Bernini)

David (Bernini)

At some point in the visit I lay my eyes upon a sculpture of Saint John the Baptist, by French sculptor Antoine Houdon. Houdon is know to art students primarily for his ecorche sculpture... that is... a sculpture of a nude figure with the skin removed. It is used to study human anatomy.  Notice in the images below that the pose of the ecorche is the same as the pose of Saint John the Baptist.  Apparently, Houdon had made the ecorche as study in preparation for the Baptist sculpture. And thus ends the mystery of Houdon's ecorche.

Saint John the Baptist (in Borghese)

Ecorche study

The works I've mentioned here are standard inclusions in Art History text books. I've had the strange feeling in Italy that I'm walking through just such an Art History textbook. In fact, I catch myself thinking… "Isn't it strange that all the noted works of western art JUST SO HAPPEN to be here in Italy". But then I keep reminding myself that this is no coincidence… because the text books were written based on these artworks being here in the first place… not the other way around.

The Borghese Gallery is located on the vast Borghese Gardens, giving one pause to consider the vast inequities of wealth in the past, and their extravagent display. The richness of Italian art that we celebrate today obscures the political realities that gave rise to it… namely, the corrupted power of Imperial Roman monumental vanity projects, as well as the dandy-ism of Renaissance lords and ladies, who spent fortunes decorating their lavish lifestyles. The artists of those times made careers as tradespeople, supplying the demand. The vast holdings of painting and sculpture… most of which is of fine technical quality but absent of any aesthetic quality… is a testament to how societies produce the skilled labor necessary to meet demand, and that overall excellence was as rare then as today.

The Borghese Gardens today are a public park, and as we stroll across their vast lawns in the direction of the Piazza del Popolo, we have the chance to once again contrast public comportment in Europe with that in America. What strikes us at this moment is calm demeanor the park visitors have. Nobody rushes or is in a hurry. If you imagine your best day in the most relaxing park… this is how everyone is acting… except a few tourists. I think that in American we are tightly wound springs, forever expending our energies in some direction, often to no effect other than to wind our spring in the opposite direction… in a constant, pendulous cycle that only ends in death. I told Margaret that an easy way to identify Americans is to take note of their facial expressions… because Americans always look very unhappy. They seem anxious and worries… their eyes darting about… a sense of exasperation hangs on them. I recognize it easily in myself. Everything in America is about the next thing. Everything is about fetishizing some future moment or acquisition, such that the present never materializes as a self-sufficient moment of experience. The Europeans know how to live in the moment. I cannot give them individual credit for knowing this… for it is simply the culture that instills it in them… just as in America we embrace a frenetic lifestyle without even realizing it. It is the all powerful force of society… with no known cure… but moments away from it (like this one) put one into a kind of remission… I hope.

We eventually reach the Piazza del Popolo again, and this we go into the Santa Maria del Popolo in order to experience the architecture… but mostly to view the Carravaggio there. Contained there in the Cerasi Chapel are two famous canvases… "Crucifixion of St. Peter", and "Conversion on the way to Damascus". Again, it's fascinating to see such masterpieces of art adorning the place they were commissioned for over 400 years ago.

Conversion on the Flight Into Egypt (Carravaggio)

Crucifixion of St. Peter (Carravaggio)

The next stop on our endless walking tour is to wander over into the Prati neighborhood, north of the Vatican… both to check it out, but also to hit up a photography store on Via del Germanica 168, in order to buy more film. Which I do. Four more rolls that cost too much, but what can you do. (6 euros a roll). Not too terribly bad. First we stop for a drink at a sidewalk cafe, then get the film, then wander over toward the Vatican. The Prati area is very relaxing. It's more like Paris than the rest of Rome. It's more of a modern gridplan than the gothic meandering of much of Old Rome. Guidebooks describe it as sedate and less exciting, but such descriptions really depend on what one finds exciting. After all, even the boisterousness of the Campo di Fiori could be described as sedate and boring compared to a Tunisian Camel Auction, or the floor of a stock exchange. So such judgments on places can be very misleading.

We arrive at St. Peters Square around 6pm, only to find a very, very long line to get in. The sun is beating down and our weary bodies cannot possible roast on that hot tarmac. So we sit in the shade of the obelisk there, and write some postcards. Unfortunately, the post office at the Vatican is closed, and so I cannot fulfill my promise to mail postcards from the Vatican.

We start heading back to Campo di Fiori, but along the way we decide to walk along the Tiber by descending the stone stairs at the Prince Amedeo bridge, that lead down to the rivers edge. This means we're on the Trastevere side of the river (just to be exact). From what I read, the Romans have "turned their backs" on the Tevere river (Tiber, in Latin). Apparently, it's reign of flooding-terror had caused the Romans to construct 3 foot high walls all around it to keep the flood waters at bay, and thus is is removed from daily life. The bridges across it are beautiful, and the views there picturesque… but the stone walkways one either side of the rivers edge are barely used. They are littered with trash here and there, and some homeless… and the cyclists use it as a fast track across the city. This very same situation held in Florence, a few days later… where Florentines have turned their back on the Arno by constructing also very high walls. Florence actually suffered a devastating flood in 1966, where the whole city was submerged under 5 to 10 feet of water (and more)…. and many art treasures were lost or badly damaged.

This river-denial contrasts with Paris, where the Seine and it's banks feature heavily into public identity, and there is a ton of pedestrian traffic and energy on ti's banks.. at least in the summer. Despite all this Roman history…. on this particular day the banks of the Tiber are alive with temporarily installed tents, stretching for a mile or so… one right after another. Each tent is some kind of bar or cafe, many containing life even stages, and so on. We have no idea what it is for. It all looks so inviting and cool. But they are just setting up for some evening events… and we have learned from experience not to approach European establishments before they are officially open… as the staff will look at you like you're an asshole. In America, they might at least appreciate the business… but Europeans don't seem to quite get the lust for profit. So they only open when they're read. The customer is not always right in Rome.

By walking along the river, we miss walking past the Villa Farnesina, which lies up on the street above the river. This is no big loss, other than in my overly-researched itinerary of Rome, where it showed up on my list of "possible" places to go. Any place we don't get to tears at my gut, making me feel like I didn't get it done. But really, my list was too long to cover in six days… and that's ok.

The richness of things to see in Rome brings one into a conflict with a different value to be found in travel… and that is the attempt to connect to how a places feels. You cannot access this feeling by visiting historical sites. The only way to achieve it is by walking the streets and sitting in cafes and strolling along rivers, and so on. The feel of a place is literally everywhere… and exists in yourself as a kind of emotional abstraction… only possible by NOT focusing on singular places… but allowing your mind to expand and diffuse itself variously.

If you miss a tourist stop, then so be it. You can always see it next time. But if you never feel the vibe of a city…. then it will never feel special… and you're unlikely to return. As this week has worn on, and as we've been actively running about checking things off our excellent list… we begin to feel we are not connecting to Rome, and so we have slowed down in the way that allows this other thing to open us for us. And this is gratifying. The walk along the river BY ITSELF is not the answer, but when combined with other meanderings, we find ourselves being drawn into the current of which I speak.

We climb back up off the Tiber at Ponte Sisto, and cross over back over from Trastevere to the Centro Storico (Historical Center, where the Campo di Firori is, as well as Piazz Navona, Pantheon, and everything else besides). Margret bird-dogs a leather store and must go in for ½ hour while I sit on a narrow marble door jamb whilst scooters and smart cars whiz by my head. She makes several key purchases. After leaving, we pick up some of the endless cups of gelato we are to eat on this trip. I would say we have each ingested 3 gallons of gelato at this point. On this occasion I accidentally buy a 6 euro LARGE, and end up with way more than I want. Whatever.

My gelato flavor of choice on this trip has been pistachio. Probably because I read somewhere that if the pistachio is a dull brown/green, then you can be sure it's good… but that if it's bright green, it has been artificially colored and is less good. This got me into eating it, and I liked it… and then I stick with what I like…especially when the other flavors (which look really good) have weird names I cannot pronounce… and the girls behind the counter (oddly) do not speak much English. How dare they!!!!  I even got into a dispute because I did not pronounce the letter "g" in the Italian spelling of Vanilla (which they spell Vaniglia). She looked at me like she didn't even understand what I was saying. All over a lower-case 'g'.

We get home exhausted again, and crash on the wonderful leather sofas there. We watch the first half of "Lawrence of Arabia" (which is two hours long anyway). We then get back up and go out to the Campo to have a drink. Then we walk to the Piazza Novona, then to the Pantheon, where we have another drink. I walk Margaret past the Goggi art supply store just to show her where it is… then we go home… and that's that for today.

Thursday, July 10th... Ancient Rome and such

So I woke up at noon on Thursday… without any tooth pain. That's a good sign. One good thing about the dental visits was that we convinced the dentist to give me a prescription for both Xanax and Codeine, which may come in handy later in life. But anyway, on with the show for Thursday.

I found out today that my Yashica 124G is broken, and so I lugged it's fat, medium format metal body all the way here for nothing. That means I have 15 rolls of 120 film that I can't shoot. It's a shame too, because now I'm gonna have to rely on my tiny Olympus XA for all the images I make… and I don't have enough film. I am forced to buy 4 more rolls in Rome. As for drawing and sketching, I'm thinking that isn't gonna happen. There's too much in Rome to see, let alone take time to study and draw. And the crowds make it even more difficult to focus. So for now I am reliant on the camera to fix images of this place. 

On our last trip to Amsterdam and Paris I was fairly successful in capturing some fine images that reflected our experience. But I'm not yet feeling that vibe, and I'm trying not to force it. This leaves me feeling somewhat anxious that I'm not engaging as much as I should. But again… I need to give it time. The trip has gotten off to a difficult start due to root canal, and I'm gonna need some time to rebound.

After getting under way at around 1pm, we accidently stumble upon the "famous" Palazzo Farnese, which directly next to Campo di Fiori. This palazzo is famous for having part of it's structure designed by Michelangelo. Anything Michelangelo was involved with becomes thereby cruise-worthy. So we cruise it as we walk by. I believe his involvement has something to do with the austere, classical lines of the second story facade. Big deal, right? That's what I think. Not being an architectural historian, I am not too jazzed by such things. I say this somewhat tongue and cheek, and do no wish to diminish what such things surely mean to other minds. But there is too much to see in Rome that choices have to be made, and so we walk on by. Ciao, Michelangelo… catch you on the flip side in Florence.

On this day we are to walk to the Colosseum and go inside (if the lines aren't too long). Somehow we get sidetracked into the Jewish Ghetto, and then into some roads leading into the Forum… and then we wind up having climbed up the side of the Capitoline Hill, atop of which is the Capitoline Museum… which was on our agenda for the day, but for AFTER the Colosseum. At any rate, the skies turn very dark and thunder starts rolling in… so we decide cruise the Capitoline then and there.

But the most compelling reason to go in at this point is that I have begun to suffer from terrible lower intestinal pain, and I required a bathroom to save my life. We wait in line for 15 minutes behind an endless array of retarded tourists buying tickets. When we finally get inside, the bathroom turns out to be lost on the second floor, which takes another 5 minutes to find. So now I'm 20 minutes into a desperate and critical need to use the bathroom. For some reason, the toilets in the museum do not have seats… only the cold and overly-wide bowl. You can imagine the rest, I suppose. Desperate times call for desperate measures… measures that I would be forced to repeat four times in-between cold-sweat intervals, whilst recovering in a lecture room full of chains… where I sit staring at the ceiling and coming up with an idea in-between bouts of hysterical squatting.

As I looked up at the ancient ceiling of the lecture room, I was taken with how beautifully the ceiling vault was perfect smoothed over with plaster, creating a smooth and continuous curved ceiling. Plaster is ever present in Renaissance architecture. Without it, builders would be forced to carve stone blocks into perfectly smooth curves, or to just go without. It is the plasterer above all other who shapes the interior space and puts the final contour into place. Having plastered myself, I can attest to how difficult it is, and how refined the master plasterer must be. The plasterer also featured heavily into fresco painting, as they would work hand in hand with the painter in applying plaster and correcting structural issues concerned with that plaster. And after thinking these interesting thoughts… I was forced to run to the bathroom.

Lest you think it was all fun and games, I should mention that the museum houses some real treasures, along with an enormous amount of the classical Roman "stuff" that I referred to in relation to the Vatican Museum. The Capitoline is similar in that it has possession of vast numbers of routine classical sculptures and busts. One blanks on much of this… probably overlooking potential gems. But the bona fide gems stand out easily. The most famous is the Capitoline Venus, which apparently has captivated the minds of horny men for two thousand years. There is also the "Dying Gual", the "She Wolf", and the colossal head of Constantine. But to me the real star was the "Esquiline Venus"… a typical yet perfectly beautiful ancient treatment of Venus.

After the "Agony at the Museum", we walk down to the Colosseum. But now it's 8pm and it is closed for the day. We mill about to the side of it. I become annoyed yet again at the Pakistani vendors who (as I said before) hawk goofy glow in the dark trinkets that have nothing to do with Rome, Italy, or Western Civilization in general… other than with the fascination with the suggestion of high-tech-anything… which I guess pretty much defines global tastes. I suppose that whatever the Pakistani's are hawking must thereby define the global desire of tourists.

We somewhat flee the vendors by retreating up a path that turns out to be the Palatine Hill. I am hoping that when we get to the top, that there is a short cut back to the apartment… or better yet, a zip line… because I hate coming down the way I go up. Such a waste. But when we get to the top… you guessed it… dead end. Have to go all the way back down.

By the time we get back to the apartment, we are very nearly paralyzed with fatigue… with sore feet, sore knees, sore lower backs… the full panoply of ailments that strike at you when you get older. Earlier in the week I had gotten two huge blisters on THE SAME TOE. So these things must be dealt with, or else everything comes to a screeching halt. I ended up buying 8 dollars worth of bandaids just to get buy. Such is life.

In a final act of desperation, we sit and watch an American movie ("The Devil Wears Prada") on a DVD that I had brought along for just such an occasion. Pathetic… yes… I know… but as Billy Joel once said… "I found that just surviving, is a noble fight".

Wednesday, July 9th... The Vatican Museum, and more

Wednesday was the much anticipated trip to the Vatican Museum on a timed ticket that starts at 10:30am. The day before we bargained the dentist for a 1:45pm appointment, so as to not rush ourselves. We walk "hard" for 45 minutes to get to the Museum… which is NOT at the front of St. Peters, but is 10 additional minutes of walking around the side. Thank God we have pre-ordered tickets, which means we don't have to wait in the incredibly long line that has already formed, and which we breeze past on our way to the entrance.

Though we are spared the long line, we are not spared the anxiety that perhaps our tickets won't really work… or that because we are "technically" 10 minutes late, that they won't let us in. We are further subject to the lack of signage, and the irrational  confidence that the Italian museum staffers have that everything is self evident.

A line forms within the museum… finally… and we find ourselves being drawn into the museums… somehow. We are like milk being drawn up a bendy straw… the suction of a the huge mob ahead of us (i.e., the line) pulling us against our will. At one point there is a sign indicating either "Full Tour" (in one direction)… or "Abbreviated Tour" (in the other direction). Having no idea what any of this means… and not really being clear which direction we are headed… we are re-immersed in the aforementioned anxiety of not knowing.

Eventually we emerge from a hallway into the galleries containing ancient Greek and Roman sculpture. The most significant piece being the Laocoon… the ancient Roman Sculpture unearthed in 1506, and which was very influential to Michelangelo (who oversaw the excavation at that time). This sculpture interests me too because there is a cast of it at PAFA, which I had many times contemplated and even made quick drawings of.

Despite this fantastic piece, much of the ancient sculpture on display is very routine stuff. And there is just so much of it. It is literally stacked on itself in roped off rooms and galleries. I would later learn (after visiting the Capitaline Museum) that the vast amount of ancient Roman sculpture is simply the excavated remains of ancient Roman culture during the Renaissance and beyond… periods which put an increasing status value on the acquisition of remnants of the ancient past. Therefore, the galleries dedicated to this stuff are less art displays, and more on the order of warehouses of (often) indistinguishable "stuff" from some ancient past which (apparently) specialized in the mass production of it.

The real star of the show at the Vatican Museum is the Sistine Chapel. And because of this, it at the end of the museum route, not the beginning. Also of interest are selected Raphael and Carravaggio paintings, which are the very last things on the route… and due to terrible signage, one could actually exit the building without seeing them. Again… more anxiety.

There are vast hallways filled with endless baroque sculptures and frescos… and one must endure these while shuffling in a vast line of tourists. There is such a wealth of decorative objects, surfaces, and monumental architectural treatments… that one begins to not even care or notice it. It's as if one fell into a candy-cane factory and soon tired of sweets… and began viewing the candy canes not as fantasy taste treats, but as a miasma of red and white gunk.

On top of this strangeness… the galleries are incredibly stuff and overly-warm… to the point where I'm starting to feel ill. We had really walked "hard" to get there, and we adhered to the so-called dress code of long pants and covered shoulders… which left me overheated. Naturally, every other person was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I was reduced to sitting down and closing my eyes, and putting water on the back of my neck. What a mess.

I almost forgot… the first relief from this monotony are the so-called "Raphael Rooms", where the famous fresco painting "The School of Athens" (and others) are located. These are actually the papal apartments from long ago. The apartment that has "The School of Athens" and "The Disputation" is the Stanza della Segnatura. It is a huge thrill to view the fresco up close. Frescos have some unique features that separate them from oil paintings, the most glaring of which (pun intended) is the lack of surface reflection. In other words, there is no glare on the fresco, so that it can be viewed from any angle. Furthermore, frescos are meant to be executed on a large scale to a large audience, and so they are designed to not rely on an ideal viewing position for their impact to be felt. This means one can scan the surface of the painting at close range and at odd angles, and notice thereby aspects of the work that are not obvious. One is aided in this by the fact that the frescos are typically very large, and so close-up or selective examination yields doesn't involve peering into a microscope or squinting at tiny details… but rather… even selected parts of the fresco may be life-sized and accessible without undue effort.

All of this was very pleasurable and intellectually exciting to consider. With the rise of easel painting and the diminished demand for fresco work… and the changes that made that come about… these facts give the impression that oil painting is the de fact most relevant form of painting. We imagine Rubens and Rembrandt and Carravaggio and Manet and so on… but we forget the long history of Renaissance painting in fresco and tempera, and we forget too the special qualities and opportunities such mediums provide. So I began to think on this.

Since we're speaking of fresco, it is natural to fast forward to the (nearly) end of the museum route and mention the Sistine Chapel. It really is quite shocking to look up and view that expanse of painterly bravura and imagined figurative constructions that Michelangelo unleashed on the Pope. The organization of this complex work is not immediately obvious, and I had usually been confused when looking at photographs of it. But a few weeks prior I had read an excellent book that discussed Michelangelo's compositional approach… and armed with this I was able to divide up the sprawling imagery into manageable parts, and not get lost in it. This was very nice, and it made my upward gaze more meaningful.

Back and forth, back and forth… over and over. Looking up at such a legendary work… trying to connect with it… to understand it… to feel it… to leave that room with something more than I came in with. This is (in fact) a typical moment when visiting the "great works". They're so hard to get to… they're so built-up in your mind… they're talked about to the point of being a cliche. And then "boom"… you're in the room with it, and the clock is ticking. When you walk out the door, the vast energy spent to stand before it will be extinguished forever. So you stare, and you hope to burn that image into your mind. But it doesn't work like that. You cannot construct a mental image that equals the moment. Strategies vary. I have mine, and sometimes I feel it working… and other times I steal one last, longing look at the artwork as I disappear around the corner and out of it's view. Then it's gone, and I don't always know what it all meant.

One of the more interesting moments in the Sistine Chapel is when the guard intones in a loud, droning voice… "Silenzio… SILENCE". The crowd quiets down real fast, and a hush falls over the room. In a minute or so the crowd murmor will slowly grow back to a buzz… and the guard will repeat his demand… "Silenzio… SILENCE". I appreciate the demand, as it casts a somber and serious tone over the space, and reminds us that we are in a religious moment… a moment of reverence.

We leave the Sistine Chapel and (luckily) remember to track down the galleries that contain Carravaggio's "Deposition From the Cross" and a room full of Raphael paintings. These are housed in the Pinacoteca (picture gallery), which the poor signage tries it's best to get you to miss. But we don't, and we can cross another set of masterpieces off the bucket list.

Finally we have to leave the museum and take a taxi back to the dentist, who digs around in my calcified tooth for over an hour. Enough said on that.

After the dentist we walked back to the Pantheon area to check out two churches. The first was the Church of San Luigi dei Francesci, which houses Carravaggio's "Triptych of Saint Matthew". This was awesome. It is strange to see perfect masterpiece of art… the kind of stuff that is include in every art history book ever written… to see it in the context for which it was originally intended. There it is… adorning the chapel walls in the dark and mysterious church.

Next, we went to the Church of Saint Augustino to see Carravaggio's "Madonna di Loretto, which was similarly awesome as the aforementioned triptych.

Following this, we walked across town and over the Tiber to the area known as Trastevere. Trastevere means "Over the Tevere"… where Tevere is the Italian word for "Tiber"… and "tras" means "over". So much for my Italian.

We walked down the main street there for a few blocks, and then checked out an art supply store on a side street. I keep expecting to find some magical art supply in these European cities, but I never do. It's just the same old stuff you can get anywhere. The only difference is how quaint the store is, and how conceited and arrogant the fifth generation proprietors are.

We walk some more, and then we begin to climb the roadways leading up the "Gianolo"… aka the "Janicum Hill", which overlooks room from a high elevation. It is not one of the original seven hills of Rome, but apparently it has the best views as the top, at a monument built to honor Garibaldi. On the walk up, we stop at the Church of San Pietro in Montorio to get a glimpse of the "Tempieto"… which is a tiny free-standing, commemorative tomb built by Renaissance master architect Bramante. It is regularly cited as the perfect embodiment of Renaissance classicism. It shows up in all the art history books, and I really wanted to get a glimpse of it. And so I did.

After the "Tempieto"… and after the great views of Rome, we descend the hill and wander the back alleys of Trastevere. We find a place to eat, and we eat. I have a plate full of potato gnocchi in pesto sauce. After diner we locate the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere, whose courtyard revolves around a fountain, which is ringed by cafes and populated with all the people of the area. We soak this in for a bit, and then we walk back to the Campo, where we call it a day.

Day One, Tuesday, July 8th

Woke up with continuing toothache, and so we made a 3pm dental appointment from the list of English speaking dentists in Rome that we compiled on Sunday. With that to look forward to, we get out of the apartment around noon and walk out to Piazza Novona, where I see Bernini's "Fountain of the Four Rivers" sculpture for the first time. The Piazza and the fountain are impressive. The bright sun beats down on the stone tiles but it is not too hot… it's not humid-hot like the east coast of the U.S. It's more a bright sunny hot, in the mid 80's probably.

The dentist recommends a root canal over an extraction, since the former is less traumatic, and she's aiming to make less of a dent in our vacation plans. The only wrinkle is that one of my canals is calcified (whatever that means) and so I must come back the next day to have a different dentist have a go at clearing it out. Nice. Just what I wanted… a 24 hour turnaround on a dental appointment.

We leave the dentist and finally find a cafe, where Margaret has wine and I have a beer. I get a Le Chouffe… which is a nice Belgian ale we first encountered in Amsterdam in 2012, on a charmed street on a late night walk. Such are the memories that construct the meanings of things like beer. But on this afternoon, it mostly just tastes like a beer. Which is fine… but hardly magical. Not that beer should be magical. In fact, beer should just be beer. Magic is for card tricks and such.

We pick up another Le Chouffe and a beer called "Delerium", which according to the girl behind the counter, is the favorite beer of everyone. We take them to go with plastic cups and sit in Piazza Novona, watching the crowds of tourists, street vendors, and locals mix into a strange and meaningless stew.

The street vendors in Rome, as I am to find out, are a strange lot. They seem to be African peoples and Pakistani's. No doubt they are immigrants with low economic prospects or education… otherwise why are they selling absurd trinkets in public squares? On the one hand you can feel sorry for them for all the obvious, geo-political and personal reasons. On the other hand, they are completely annoying… and the trinkets that they peddle have NOTHING to do with Rome or for anyone's reasons for being there. Their trinkets consist in one of the following things. Either they shoot glow in the dark 6 inch rockets into the air with a rubber band, which then slowly descend to earth on a propellor… or they bounce glow in the dark balls on the pavement… or they throw glow in the dark gelatinous balls on the ground, which appear to be smashed thereby, but which then slowly reconstitute themselves back into a ball shape… or they flash laster pointers  at your feet. Like I said… these things have NOTHING to do with Rome past, present, or future. It is simply junk.

However, these desperate people would not waste their time unless there was a market for this so-called "junk"… which of course there is. If every 300th person buys something, then there is a market. And with hundreds of people streaming by all the time, there is always a buyer eventually… enough to make it worth the while of these vendors. But this brings up a few interesting thoughts. Firstly… isn't it messed-up that one person in 300 screws it up for everyone else? If that person could just resist buying a glow-in-the-dark six inch rocket, then the vendors would have to quit and go home.  It also brings up the familiar complaint that the American tourists ruin the environment by funding the tacky street vendor. The counter-argument is that the tourist does not create the market for tack-tourist-shit… it is actually the host-country that does so. When tourist dollars are floating around, there seems to be no stone unturned in the pursuit of even the tiniest bit of profit…. everything from fancy hotels and meals… to pricey museum tickets… down to the aforementioned street vendors… and even further down to the professional pan-handlers who sit in front of church doors looking like lepers from the 4th century B.C., looking up with stigmatized eyes while mumblings requests/invocations/curses on you lest you drop money in their cup. One of them did so while shuffling the menu on her ipod. No penny can fall to earth in the tourist universe without some local sweeping down to catch it. It's all so tacky…. all so unrelated to enlightened travel. I search my heart and mind for reasons and questions and answers… and I cast my whole self into contemplations of what Rome might mean… and then I have to deal with some Pakistani guys shining a laser pointer at my feet. I literally want to kill him with my bare hands and stuff him in a trash can. Now wouldn't that make for great sport in the Colosseum?

We walk a few blocks from Piazza Novona and emerge suddenly in from of the Pantheon… that well preserved Roman temple to all the pagan gods. The suddenness of it's appearance is surprising. But then again… everything your run into for the first time in Rome feels sudden. That is because the streets are so narrow and you can't see anything and everything is not that far away… and there are no signs… because the Romans don't seem to believe in signage. Why have signs when you know where everything is? Just like in Barcelona. And just like Barcelona, their are no streets signs, just plaques installed on the sides of buildings with the street name chiseled into it like a work of art. And then only one, as chiseled plaques are kind of expensive. And not always in the same spot, for whatever reason. And then the street name changes all the time, despite appearing to be the same continuous run of street surface. And so on. It all adds up to a level of confusion and disorientation that magnifies the effect of emerging from a six foot wide "street" into a vast public piazza and in front of a building of great historical significance. Such is the approach to the Pantheon.

Everything you might imagine about the Pantheon is true. From the outside its mass and magnitude speak to 2000 years of Imperial Roman presence. The pediment and it's inscription of "M-Agrippa" asserts the past into your exact moment of existence, causing a psychological double-take, as you try to reconcile presumptions of the ruined past with this un-ruined architectural fact. The pantheon is not a building… it is a "thing". A massive hulking shape of marble and stone and brick and concrete… of such unmovable stature that it seems rather to be sinking into the ground that sitting upon it. Probably this is due to the rest of the city being built "up" on slightly higher ground over the centuries. But the Pantheon is undeterred by the passage of time. It stubbornly digs itself into that spot where it's foundations were laid, no doubt on top of foundations prior to that which we know not of. And so this spot has existed in the minds of men stretching back thousands of years. But instead of this being a cliche of historical analysis, it is rather a disturbing reminder that we occupy such a small slice of that time past, and even less the time to come… where the Pantheon will live on while we pass away. And so this thing… this temple… shakes off our presumptions of quaint historical purpose… shakes them off with it's tail while staring us down. It presents, as it always has… a mute pediment… a row of columns.. and a huge dark opening into which any human must be drawn. And so we are drawn to it and into it, and in this there is no option.

The interior of the Pantheon presents first and foremost the interior of it's dome… so high and vast that the air inside produces an atmospheric perspective by which we sense the great distance it spans. The effect is momentarily dizzying, such as one feels when looking up at distant mountains. The oculus at the top reveals a round patch of perfect sky… whose light flows through the opening at a precise angle, and casts a spotlight on the floor based on the location of the sun at that moment. Huge crowds cover most of the floor, milling unconsciously about from one thing to the next. The walls are inset chapel niches, one of which holds Raphael's tomb… which oddly has been updated with a flashing light. Other niches contain medieval frescos, whilst the biggest niche (opposite the door) is the main altar. I should stop trying to describe that which has been described many times over, and better than here. I should conclude only that the interior is less meaningful than the exterior. The interior was converted from a pagan temple, to a christian church, and now to a tourist attraction for all time. The exterior has not changed… and in it's craggy, grand, colossal unchanging way… it carries that larger historical meaning. And while the tourists have take over the interior… the massive stone "thing" sits where it always has… under the hot sun on that exact spot for all time.

After finally leaving the Pantheon, we walk a block or so and find the Basilica Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. The word "sopra" means "over"… meaning that it was built "over" a previous temple dedicated to Minerva. It seems that Saint Mary trumps everything in Rome. Inside the basilica is a sculpture called "Christ Carrying the Cross", by Michelangelo. This is why we came here. But naturally, these grand churches are so much more than the things contained in them, and one is mesmerized by the monumental scale at which churches were architected back when people put their money where their mouth was. The church is a giant jewelry box… and while the objects in it might sparkle, it is the box itself that situates these treasures and provides a context for their existence.

This brings up a questions that stuck has stuck in my mind now for the past week… the question of how it is that (as they say) "architecture is the mother of the arts". On the one hand, a simple explanation is to recognize that the craftsmen who built such things long ago evolved into the more specialized painters and sculptors who ascended to the rarified status of "artist". Another way to consider the maternal nature of architecture is to recognize a simple fact with surprising implications… which is that all the art that get's made has to actually go somewhere… has to be housed in a building. Unless we nail our paintings to a tree, or put our sculptures in the woods… we actually have to find a place to put them. These places are the man-made buildings of all kind, i.e., architecture understood simply as buildings… architecture as any constructed space. Further, these spaces (being so built) cost money, and this money comes from economic activity generally… and that economic activity ties the building into social purpose. In the end, what the building does and represents is tied to these purposes. Therefore, whatever ends up decorating the walls and spaces of the building must necessarily be consistent with those social purposes. And so it is that architecture (the constructed space) has a determinate effect on what gets made for it…. and is therefore the mother of the arts.

The notion of architecture can be extended to a more abstract level, which transcends buildings per se, and considers not simply the architecture of buildings, but the architecture of the man-made world. It is probably more correct to refer to this as the "systems" of the world… rather than the architecture. In which case, the "systems" of the world determine the art. When the systems of the world revolved around religious devotion and pious allegiance to the Catholic Church… the resulting religious art was determined. With the evolution of the modern world, the shift to secular and materialistic world-views produced secular systems, which led to secular art. In our own time, the systems of materialism, consumerism, and a virtual society alienated from much of what has been our history…. defines systems of living that lead to the strange artistic constructions we see today. Everything that gets made and bought and finds a home within the great systemic architecture of this society, is accounted for thoroughly. This strikes the artist hard, if they presume the power to author meanings themselves, and to put them into the world. If the world opens it's arms to your product, then it has already anticipated them… you are already in sync with it. One is free to embrace the known… but is one free to author themselves apart from such agreed upon meanings? I think not. The limit of human freedom is the limit on our individual self to define who and what we are apart from society. But we make these claims in a void, with only our own ears to keep us company. Everything embraced is enslaved thereby, and the only freedom is in an avant gard reaction.

We leave the Sopra Minerva and walk up to the Trevi Fountain. Naturally, the fountain is turned off and covered with scaffolding. Such has been our luck many times. First it was the Grand Canyon fogged in on the one day we had to visit it. Then it was the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, which was closed for construction in 2012. It was also the Picasso Museum in Paris, closed for construction in 2010. And so it goes. And of course, there is New York City, 25% of which is scaffolded at any time. More mature types would immediately recognize this as simply bad luck and the inevitable upkeep required of ongoing civilization. But from my point of view, it just sucks. I can't take a long-view on culture when my vacation's two-week window of opportunity is compromised.

So then we walk up Via del Corso, the busy shopping street in Rome (or so they say). It is certainly busy, and the sidewalks are three feet wide maybe. And there are tourists coming at you shoulder-to-shoulder, causing you to step into the path of an oncoming scooter or mini-car. We head North to Piazza del Popolo, but we are intending to cut over at some point and walk up the Spanish steps, which we do. We stop to snap some pictures. Naturally, the boat-shaped fountain at the foot of the steps is turned off and scaffolded-up for construction. I wonder if they will carve my name on it's base so that future generations might understand that I sacrificed for the future of public art.

The Spanish Steps go up and up and up, and then you're on a road…. known either as Via Sistina (from the south), or if you head north to Piazza del Popolo (as we do) it is called Vialle della Tinita dei Monti. Like I was saying before, the streets change their names any time they encounter any kind of piazza, even if they continue straight through it. So we head north along this elevated road, which eventually descends to the Piazza del Popolo. Right away I'm thinking of the movie "Angels and Demons" (which I also thought of at the Piazza Novona)… but in the burning light of day, the piazza is less dramatic. Large… yes… but not dramatic. And also here there is a huge amount of scaffolding, as they are erecting a giant stage just off enter of the piazza, which is to host some kind of "Hard Rock" concert event. On Friday we would be at the Church of Santa Maria del Popolo (located on the piazza itself), and we would hear rock music sound-checks reverberating through the church. And so on.

We walk back south on Via del Corso looking for a place to eat. Unfortunately, the pain in my mouth (so effectively subdued by novocaine, is wearing off… and the searing pain of dental surgery is upon me. As we sit to eat, I am in so much pain that I simply announce that I must leave and immediately walk back to the apartment. Margaret stays behind to eat in peace, while I stagger home for 20 minutes of so while moaning and swerving back and forth. People look at me funny the whole way. A mouthful of Advil finally kicks in a little bit, and then I get home and pop a Tylenol with Codeine. Relief finally comes. Margaret returns eventually and asks how I'm doing. I'm ok for now… but tomorrow the dentist is going to dig in again… and that's not fair on your vacation.

Flying to Europe, July 6 & 7.

Flying to Europe is always hard. You leave one day, arrive the next, lose track of time, arrive exhausted, draw all the wrong conclusions, and require a good nights sleep just to clear your head. None of this difficulty is free, either. You pay out the ass for the opportunity. Reporting on the inevitable difficulty of such things is an exercise in futility... perhaps... for what can one learn from obsessing over that which cannot be changed? Don't answer that!!!!!

My whole life revolves around such obsessive considerations. But before I even got a chance to fuss about travel woes, the trip was preempted by an abscessed tooth that raised it's ugly throbbing head that day of our journey, which was last Sunday, July 6th.

So yes... I wake up with throbbing pain in my lower left jaw, and I can't ignore it... and so we seek an emergency summit with a dentist. We get the man on the phone, but best he can do a prescription for penicillin and painkillers, which I gladly take. Hopefully I can knock out the infection and deal with this when I get back. Nice plan. Thank god our flight doesn't leave till 6:30pm, as that gives me plenty of time to take care of this crap.

Our neighbor Troy drives us to the airport, saving us time and money. My codeine and Advil are kicked in, so I'm ok for the moment. Our most excellent seats are on the exit row. But since we board first, we must suffer EVERY OTHER passenger walking in front of us with their luggage banging around my knees. On top of this, the air conditioning system in the plane is pumping super cold air right onto my head. I'm only dressed in shorts and t-shirt, so now I'm freezing my ass off, with a dull toothache, while people slam my knees with luggage. I put on the tiny airplane blanket that is provided each passenger, and clutch the tiny pillow to my torso to further insulate my vital organs.

The flight attendant stands before us, greeting passengers. She observes my discomfort and offers up two more blankets. I put on of them over my head like a tent, and exhale hot breath in order to simulate a warm environment. The passengers continue to board in front of my strange exhibitionism, as Margaret spreads the other blanket over my legs. A mood begins to spread all about me that I am a pathetic loser who isn't man enough to stay warm on his own, and that I risk scaring the boarding passengers. The blanket on my legs suggests Franklin Roosevelt's crippled limbs, but since I cannot be photographed only from the waist up, I am known for what I am. Weak.

This terrible mood of weakness is cleverly disguised by the pseudo-concerned voice of the flight attendant, as she repeatedly asks if I am cold.  Yeah lady, I'm cold. Not only am I cold... I am freezing my ass off... and once you get chilled like that, you can't get warm again. And of course, I have an abscessed tooth I'm trying to live through. So this moment isn't so great. And then there's the other flight attendant... less skilled at hiding her disgust. She gives me that phony smile the hides her true feelings. An old man boards in front of me and seems frightened by my hooded, grim-reaper-esque appearance. He mumbles something like... "amortie"... which I took to be a Portugese word describing death, or the plague, or something really bad. I pull the blanket off and laugh to ease his fears. He laughs and taps me on the head with his ticket.

Did I mention that we have a five hour layover in Lisbon, Portugal.

We do.

The airport in Lisbon looks like an abstract architectural project for a utopian city. Gigantic open spaces stretch in all directions. Conveyor belt sidewalks propel you at super-pedestrian speeds to... to... to (oddly enough)... long expanses where there is no conveyor belt sidewalks. Poor signage masquerading as abstract graphic design invites one to get lost... and we gladly accept. We finally reorient to the correct terminal, but all indications are that there is no known departure gate in our immediate future. This necessitates spending time eating a meal in the so-called "food court".

I have to say... Europeans can't do food-courts AT ALL.  Food courts require the following.

One Taco Bell, one McDonalds, a Burger King, a Chinese places that serves Bourbon Chicken, a Sbarro or other Pizza place... a place that sells deli sandwhiches, and friend chicken establishment. Plus, each place must sell Coke and Pepsi.  But this is Portugal... so Noooooooo... none of that.  The Portuguese food court has one place that sells flat bread sandwiches and orange juice... another that sells pieces of fruit and small bottles of seltzer... and places that sell similarly non-useful food that nobody wants. And the reason I say nobody wants it... is that their is a McDonalds stuck in the corner, and there are 50,000 people in line for it.  I wait in line there for a while, but I abandon after I realize that the Europeans customers view McDonalds NOT as a fast food place, but as a place where they can place complex orders, and they are (in a sense) invited to do so by a menu structure that promises great variety. Ughhh. It's so.... so.... WRONG!!!

I manage to find a place that sells a Fanta orange soda for less than the cost of a car tire. I find my way back to Margaret, who has hooked me up with an egg and sausage plate. The scrambled egg is orange in color, and weird in texture. The sausage that looks exactly like a dirty-water hot dog from a Philly street vendor. It tastes ok... and I'm starving... so I tell myself it is completely different than the dirty-water hot dog... but I'm not so sure. But it all tastes ok to a starving man... and thank god too for my Fanta orange soda... which saved my life.

Then we wander around the terminal until I insist we plop my tired butt in any available seat. Which I do. And then we wait. I put the airplane blanket BACK over my head, and proceed to startle the passengers in the terminal. Screw 'em. I'm just trying to survive.

The flight to Rome is three hours long. Fortunately we carried on our luggage and are thus able to grab a cab quickly after deplaning.  The driver goes fast... Italian style... careening from lane to lane... we wind our way into central Rome. To our right we suddenly see ruins from the Roman Forum, and get a glimpse of the Circus Maximus. Then we're quickly into the tangle of cobbled, narrow, gothic streets that define the historic center of Rome. The cab actually goes up tiny streets that you'd assume were pedestrian walkways, and finally onto the Campo di Fiori itself, where we pay the kings ransom and drag out luggage to the apartment. The real estate girl meets us at the apartment to show us how everything works. Later we'll find out that everything does not work... but by that time she is long gone and phone calls go unanswered. That's the way it goes when renting an apartment, it seems.

We head out into the night to walk the neighborhood. There is a dank, dark, old-world quality to it all. A heaviness hangs in the buildings, in the narrow streets, in the black cobblestones worn shiny and slick through the years... their uneven surfaces oddly comforting under your footfall, but simultaneously demanding focus in how you walk... and over time they somewhat exhaust ankles more accustomed to perfectly flat American sidewalks.  But until such exhaustion hits... and then after such exhaustion is transcended in time... one glides through perfectly natural settings attuned to human tendencies you never knew you had, because you never experienced them... because you only experience one's environmental nature via one's environment. And like all foreign places, one is forced to engage oneself anew.

But we tire easily this night. We go to a small supermarket and buy some stuff to eat, and lug it home. Then we crash hard and wake up late.

This is how it always is.