Of cats, emperors, and ruins

Awoke this morning to a sound that went off in my head, one of those dream noises that startles you to consciousness, at around 6:30 am, or 9:30 pm, however you want to tally it. Aside from the sound of my mental fingers snapping, I slept a deep, dreamless sleep. We were out by 9:30 pm, never having made it to the Tiber for a night stroll. Just too wrecked. First thing this morning, I sat for 15 minutes and let the musty smell of the air shaft outside the living room window waft over me and color the canvas of my mental picture with memories of wet Thai afternoons. This gave way soon to a general sense of peace, good preparation for a day of vagabonding around the Eternal City.

Embracing the Eternal. City. Via della Luce, 16, Rome.

Then, choking down another Segafredo, marginally better than last night's, Sean and I set out for an afternoon of sites, which in Rome is essentially anywhere you happen to find yourself. First, however, we negotiated the complexities of a local cafe, learning that to order an espresso "banco" means to quaff it with a quickness at the counter, and hence pay less than ordering it "tavolo," meaning take your sweet time at a table and pay for the pleasure. We paid for the pleasure, and each enjoyed a corneto (croissant) too, our first of many deviations from vegitalismo (veganism). We were hungry again before reaching the door, so upon crossing the Tevere (Tiber), a muddier, weedier version of the Seine, we posted up at a paninoteca in the Piazza Campo de Fiori, overlooking a farmer's market with some of the most beautiful produce I've ever seen. We sat on the capacious patio, ordered panini e americani e frizzanti (sparkling water) and ate at a Roman pace (slowly) before examining the market fare.

Bridge over ancient muddy waters, Ponte Garibaldi, Rome.

Buying kale, carrots, tomatoes, and parsley for a farro salad, Piazza Campo de Fiori. Very helpful farmers marketeer overseeing my selections.

Very caffeinated, laden with vegetables, we ventured into the circuitous series of allies that expand like tendrils of travertine and cobblestone, winding among crumbling masonry retrofitted with shops and apartments, and punctuated at every turn by muscular gods and bearded men in stone, some sinewier than others.

15th-century fountain by Bernini featuring Bacchic frolickers and turtles, Jewish Ghetto, Rome. According to my main man Rick Steves, "It's said that Bernini cared about the Jews and honored them with the symbol of a turtle — an ancient creature that carries all its belongings on its back." Thanks Bernini!

Swordless (in two senses) man-god, Jewish Ghetto, Rome.

We looked for the famous synagogue of the Jewish ghetto but found the Portico di Ottavia instead, a once-enormous 2000 year old structure that the emperor Augustus built for his sister. Not much remains, but one can lose oneself in imagining what the thing must have looked like in 10 BC.

Portico di Ottavia, Jewish Ghetto, Rome.

Inspired by Rome's first and greatest emperor's benevolence, I gave a crippled gypsy half a Euro for this snapshot:

Little known fact: all gypsies in Rome have humpbacks and severe foot deformities, requiring a penitent comportment and a cane.

If all the gypsies and all the stray cats of Rome united, they could easily defeat the city:

Julius Casear's latest reincarnation, haunting the excavated marble ruins of Pompey's theater, where Rome's almost-first emperor was assassinated by his fair-weathered friend Brutus (below) on the ides of March, 44 BC, Largo di Torre Argentina, corner of Via Florida and Via Arenula, Rome.

Brutus, pictured here, is doomed to share a haunting ground with Caesar, Largo di Torre Argentina, Rome.

Crossing the Ponte Fabricio, we then headed north to Vatican City, hoping to soothe our souls in the cool, catholic silence of the Basilica of St. Peter and the Sistine Chapel. Alas, we only made it to the former, although we did follow the path of the penitent along the cyclopean brick wall encircling Vatican City only to find that the Musei Vaticani, which include the Sistine, admit no visitors after 3:45 (we were an hour late). St. Peter's, however, was breathtaking. As we navigated the babel of tourists and entered the basilica, I kept hearing Mary Garland, a provincial, puritanical American girl visiting Rome for the first time in Henry James's first novel, Roderick Hudson (on which I am presenting at the HJ Conference on Saturday), sighing in sad wonderment that America's "poor past" has died here, below the dome of St. Peter's, "in an instant." Indeed, Ms. Garland, all of America's past can fit in one nook of this vastness:

Words do not suffice. The dome of St. Peter's Basilica, Vatican City, Rome.

The light itself of the basilica is unlike any other, and draws the chosen into its embrace:

Perhaps I should have worn a holier shirt.

I was complimented after Sean snapped this photo by a heavily bearded man speaking very good English (probably Dutch, who speak better English than Americans), saying I looked very holy. I thanked him, as a good Jewish Catholic should.

The rest of the day is a blur of fruitless walking and dehydration (only on the verge of fainting did I muster the courage to fill my water bottle from one of Rome's many sidewalk spigot's, which look like they draw water from the sewers, but apparently dispense perfectly potable stuff). After a stop at our local biologico (organic grocer) for the final ingredients of our farro salad (about to be eaten), we made it home, exhausted, sticky, happy.

Farro salad with lentils, kale, parsley, tomato, carrot, and pasta, dressed with oil and vinegar, garlic, and Italian spice mixture. Unbelievably good.