What would you give for a falafel and some epic statuary?

I awoke the next morning at 8 am to the diminutive beeping of my wristwatch alarm and pretended for 45 minutes that this was my apartment, and this was my morning routine, and this was my life, showering, dressing, putting on the moka pot, and preparing for a day's work. Morning bells from a nearby chiesa rang their tinny song, a sound as old and unchanged as the layers of ruins still lying beneath the streets of Rome, yet to be unearthed.

We heard something like this every morning, afternoon, and evening, on the hour.

It baffles the modern American mind how anyone as modern and progressive as the Europeans undoubtedly are can tred their battletorn, bloodsoaked palimpsest streets without constantly thinking about the next stratum of history that will inevitably overlay their own. Probably, they perform the same mental maneuver that Los Angelinos perform when forgetting the immanent Big One that is already rumbling beneath our feet.

John Cabot University, where the International Conference of the Henry James Society is being held this year, and where I was scheduled to give a paper on James's Roderick Hudson yesterday morning, is situated on a small street called the Via della Lungara running below and parallel to the riverfront avenue (the Lungotevere), about a 10 minute walk from Via della Luce, 16, my beloved temporary home. Ever punctual, I arrived with plenty of time to spare, which I mostly used to sip espresso and mourn the loss of a tiny screw that held the left arm of my sunglasses to the frame. I have since jerryrigged a replacement out of a staple, bent and twisted to hold the arm loosely in the joint without stabbing me in the eye or face. But this will not do for our rides, which begin tomorrow. I have inquired in two different ottici (optical shops), neither able to help me. I may buy a cheap pair from a street vendor near the train station, unless I can find one of those stretchy bands to fix them snugly to my face. Very fashionable.

At John Cabot, I was the second to go. I read the thing, fielded a couple of questions, spoke with one admirer of my paper at length afterward, he offering to publish my paper or a longer version of it in the Revue française d’études américaines, a peer-reviewed French journal of American studies, and me flattered and accepting his offer. Then I cut out of there, into the blazing sun reflecting off of the cobbles and bricks and travertine of the sunken street, hurrying back to the apartment to meet up with Sean. Part of me wishes I had factored more time into our itinerary to spend at the conference because there were at least 2 other panels I would have liked to see, and it would have been nice to have more face time among my peers. Because I now actually feel like one of their peers. But alas, when in Rome, do as Rome demands, and see as much of it as you can before boarding your train for Florence. To that effect, Sean and I properly took in Trastevere, venturing off our now well-trod immediate neighborhood and up along the narrowing cobblestone alleys into the hills overlooking all of Rome. There is a forest up there, and beyond it is the terracotta immensity of the Eternal City, laid out like brocaded sea of domes and campaniles and basilicas and arches and slanting rooftops, and beyond that lay the hills, and to the west, the Mediterranean (not visible through the haze of the afternoon heat and humidity).

I do believe I have the vapors, Janiculum Hill, Trastevere, Rome.

View of Rome from Janiculum Hill, Trastevere, Rome.

On the way back down, we stopped in at the Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere. I'll let the photos speak for me this time:

The altar, Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome.

The frescoed ceiling, Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome.

The wall-mounted organ, Basilica di Santa Maria in Trastevere, Rome.

Back at the apartment, we met with our temporary landlord, who for some unaccountable reason Sean calls Silvestre, which is not his name, and although I could easily look at the business card he handed us on the first day to determine what his name in fact is, I do not. The name has stuck. We get out deposit back, give the keys to Silvestre, learn that the A/C, which we thought was busted, is not in fact busted but simply on the wrong setting, which with all of our futzing with the remote we never discovered, and say arrivederci to Via della Luce, 16, shedding a single tear (inside) as we shuffled down the uneven pavement to the main street to catch a cab to Stazione Terminale, where we deposit our bags in the high security bag deposit room (EU$4 per bag), grab a falafel (one of the few reliably vegan, and reliably delicious, alimentary options available in Rome, where it seems only in the proximity of the train station can one find a meal that does not involve pasta, pizza, gelato, or carni), retrieve our bags, take some shots of the human variety clustered on the platforms, board car 9, grab a Birra Moretti (me) and a doppio (Sean) from the concession car (6 cars down), listen to Schubert, Liszt, and Debussey (me), read the New Yorker (Sean), write a little (me), sleep a little (Sean), watch the scene turn greener and hillier, and arrive in Florence an hour and fifteen minutes later, a little beat but very happy to be on the cusp of the real reason we came here, to do the thing that inspired us to travel all these miles, to ride, to ride, and to ride some more.

Our apartment is very close to the train station, and thus, as I mentioned a minute ago, the neighborhood is replete with falafel shops. In fact, there are three just below our window, which overlooks the truly prodigious Mercato Centrale, the one-stop shop for all things vegetable, mineral, and animal (mostly animal: pics forthcoming). Not only that, but just down the narrow, Vespa-congested viale lies a miracle within a miracle, Il Dolce Vegan: baked goods (pasti), pizzas, pig-nose focaccia rolls, and a full menu of contorni, primi, and secondi (dishes for all seasons, including lasagna) with not an animal product to be had for the asking. Sean discovered this gem, and needless to say we hit it our first morning.

Il Dolce Vegan apple danish, dopio, and very popular Ray Ban aviators, which it seems are handed out to Italians at birth, so I guess Sean must be Italian, Florence, Italy.

Thanks to Sean's generally superlative research skills, we learned to avoid the Duomo and the Uffizi in the morning and early afternoon, opting instead to take in the Museo Nazionale del Bargello, which is housed in what appears to be a medieval campanile (clock tower) and church, and which is supposed to be a "second-class" museum in Florence. I guess compared to the Uffizi, which we have yet to see, and which by all accounts is unimpeachable, the Bargello is second-class, but my god! Why have I never heard of Bartolomeo Ammannati? Or Badinello? Or Giambologna? Aside from the exaggerated buttocks, Giambologna's Oceanus, in the open-air gallery of the Bargello, crushes all art from the 17th C on between its enormous, exaggerated marble ass.

"Look upon my cheeks, ye mighty, and despair!" Giambologna's Oceanus, Bargello Museum, Florence.

Giambologna's Jason and the Golden Fleece, Bargello Museum, Florence.

The Bargello also houses Donatello's famous black marble David, in case you were wondering where you can see it. I especially like his old school carabinieri's hat (I didn't get a photo because Sean had the camera and was in a different gallery, but you can google it, and you should). I also had a quick nap in a chair in the high-ceilinged gallery where they keep the Donatellos.

After the Borgello, a drink at a local cafe. Then to the Duomo, where we waited in line in the brutal late afternoon sun for a half an hour of heat that could soften steel and were quickly chastened for our sweaty cynicism when, dodging Chinese women selling shawls to immorally outfitted European girls in short shorts and tank tops, we entered the vertiginous womb of the church. No tour of Brunelleschi's famous dome, alas, as it was Sunday and they close it off on Sundays. The cathedral is immense and sparse compared to the others I have seen, but no less edifying in its cool enormity. Thankfully, the campanile was open for business, and EU$6 later we began our spiral ascent to the bellfry, squeezing against the cold stone walls to allow descending tourists to pass, each of us hugging our particular swatch of rounded corner to make as much room for traffic in the ever narrowing nautilus as possible. At each loggia, we took a look over the edge,

High on the Campanile, Duomo, Florence. The sky of Florence reminds me of LA's pristine blue, with its cloud here and cloud there and all but unbroken azure for league upon league.

We befriended a Japanese traveler named Kaito, with whom Sean rapped in Nihongo (Japanese) for a few minutes after we took each other's pictures.

The walk down built up our momentum for the walk home, and ten minutes later we were enjoying a falafel and relaxing before a walk to the Arno River for some people watching and dusk-bathing.

View of the Ponte Vecchio, the shoppingest bridge in the world, from the Ponte Alle Grazie, Florence.

Dark descended, and we were hungry again. Sean took some shots of window displays in the very ritzy streets near the river (Feragamo, Prado, Gucci, et al.) and we called it a night, embracing the thought that tomorrow, we'd be mashing the hills of Tuscany.

First ride: Florence, Fiesole, Polcanto, Olmo, Florence: 34 miles, 3200 feet of climbing.

To be continued...