The best way to see Rome is from the back of a scooter.  I say the back, because you aren’t fully aware of the impending doom that is around every hairpin turn, swerve, screeching stop and turbo acceleration.  So long as you can get used to these and let go of the need to control anything, I think it’s the best way, for sure.

“Rome traffic is fluid, so don’t be afraid or anything.”  He’d picked me up at my hotel and buckled a helmet on my grinning head.  “You’re going to have the ride of your life.”  Now we were zipping down the street in front of the floodlit Colosseum.

“Oh, I’m not afraid,” I half-shouted, bumping helmets as I tried to get close enough for him to hear.  “I’m just holding on.”  It was true.  I was grinning ear-to-ear, but wasn’t about to let my grip slip off the little handles on either side of my thighs.

Fabio is another amazing Italy contact:  a friend of a friend, who after a couple of emails back and forth was taking me out to show me his city – from the back of his scooter.

“Tell me what you did today so I know what you’ve already seen.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  I looked at him, unable to begin a sentence.  I’d seen quite a lot.  It had been a couple of the longest days of sightseeing I’d ever had.  I started down the list, but we got sidetracked, or he stopped listening or something happened, because we had cruised past the forum, palatine hill, and nameless other piazzas, and were now passing the Coliseum.  Fabio was narrating from the front seat.  This was simultaneously entertaining and nerve-racking.

“Oh yes, I saw this today, it’s beautiful.”  “You went inside, too?”  He was surprised.   “Yup.  It was great.”

“I’m trying to figure out how you did everything today.”  So was I.  “Well, I did coliseum, forum, palatine hill and the pantheon this morning and then the Vatican this afternoon.”  “But you didn’t do the Vatican museum today.”  It was more of a statement than a question.  “Oh no, I did.”  I’m not sure he believed me.  I’d also done the Sistine chapel, St. Peter’s and Trevi again.

“Well, have you seen the pyramid crypt?”  I’d only seen it in guidebooks.  So we headed there.  It’s a pyramid shaped crypt that makes up part of the wall of the non-catholic cemetery.  “It’s really a pyramid” I was informed.  Well, it certainly looked like a pyramid.

We next drove past the Circuis  Maximus, an old chariot racing track.  Then we drove up a hill to “the keyhole.”  I’d never heard of it, but Fabio assured me that it was a very famous place.  We pulled into what appeared to be a military-guarded parking lot.  Fabio took me over to a building on the edge of the lot closest to the military guys, and pointed to a large, round keyhole.  “Have a look.”

“This is the smallest sovereign nation on earth. You’ve heard of the order of Malta?  This is their place.”  I looked up and saw the Malta cross in concrete above the door.  Fabio told me this single building is the headquarters, and is its own sovereign entity.  That’s why it was guarded by guys in camo, who were watching us closely.  Fabio seemed terribly unconcerned.  This was his city.

“That’s the most famous view in Rome.”  I motioned for him to take a look.  He just smiled wryly.  “That’s alright.  I know it.”

He took me past several churches.  “That one is the oldest Christian church in Rome.”  “Those are all from 500.”  “That one is from 900.”  “Bellisima!” he declared as we rode past each.  The suffix ‘issima’ means ‘the most.’  Apparently every church in Rome is the most beautiful.  Or the most old.  Or something that the rest of the world has copied.  The Greek part of me wanted to say something about the fact that the Roman temples that many churches now inhabited were, in fact, modeled on the Greek temples of the ancient world.  I kept my mouth shut, though.  I was on the back of a scooter, getting a private tour of Rome, and I was happy to be there.

We’d decided to cross the river to a part of town I hadn’t seen yet.  Trastevere was a medieval part of town where people still live and work.   A bustling neighborhood that boasts its part of the medieval wall that used to be closed at night to keep out thieves.  We pulled up to a large, high building .  It had no paint and a very plain façade, except for the torches set in brackets, sending up large, flickering flames.

Fabio knew I was vegetarian and went out of his way to find a place that would accommodate me.  “I would have taken you to another place, but they would probably be unfriendly to a vegetarian.”  I pictured myself being slapped by a steak.  “Roman food is very…earthy,” he said, bringing his hand down through the air in front of him.  I reassured him that I can almost always find a pasta or pizza to make due with.  And this place we had come was a pizzeria.  More pizza!

We walked up a flight of steep, narrow stairs to a heavy door on the second floor, and pushed.  The inside of the restaurant was dark and had bare, rocky walls decorated with old, wooden farming equipment.

Tonight, Fabio ordered for us, explaining that I was vegetarian and that I didn’t drink.  It was nice not to have to struggle through the conversation with the waiter.

We started with bruschetta.  “You know what it is?”  Oh yes.  Terribly yummy toasted bread with stuff on it.  The only thing I had always wondered about was how to say the word.  Ours were lovely large, thick pieces of bread toasted perfectly so the inside was still chewy.  We had three.  One was a kind of garlic oil, one a chunky, marinated tomato, and one diced, seasoned mushrooms.

Fabio kept telling me to eat.  We were two lawyers, and I had someone across from me who wanted to talk politics.  Global politics, American politics, Italian politics, everything.  And in English.  We were talking about the past three US presidential elections, the state of Italian politics, the political situation at the time of the first two World Wars, pending US judicial decisions, military theory, and more.  The conversation and the bruschetta was excellent.

And then my pizza came.

As you can see the pizza in Rome is a little different than the pizza I’d been eating elsewhere.  It was thicker.  And the toppings were thicker.  Instead of the really thin slices of eggplant and peppers I’d had on almost all of my other pizzas, this one had thick, juicy slabs of eggplant, and mounds of peppers.

I don’t know if this was truly indicative of Roman pizza, but it was good.

The conversation continued on, winding through our careers.  We eventually found ourselves talking about happiness.  What was it?  Could you be happy bringing happiness to others?  Was happiness a collective or a personal experience?  Was it worthwhile pursuing.  Fabio is a smart guy.  We sparred regarding the functionality of lying, military force, and fear.  “I wish I was as sure as you are,” he said in response to some binary comment I’d made.  “Oh honey, I’m not sure about anything really.  I’m just trying to be happy.”  In the end we came to no conclusions and agreed that it was a good result.

We walked back out into the night, through a group of people smoking on the narrow stairs.  Italy passed laws banning smoking in places like restaurants, but they don’t seem to have mirrored the US laws that require smoking to take place away from the buildings.  “That’s horrible.  I would never do that,” said Fabio as we pushed our way through the crowd, and he took out a pack of cigarettes.

I asked him how he was a marathon runner who smoked and he assured me that it was just a myth that you coughed if you smoke.  I gave him a fair amount of crap, and he told me a story about hitting the wall at mile 20 in one of his races, and asking a guy on the side of the road for a cigarette.  The picture of him running with the cigarette made the local paper.

We headed to the river for a quick look at the view.  He seemed totally unconcerned as we wedged ourselves through tall young men drinking bottles of beer.  I paused to take a picture of the gorgeous river.

It was nice to have a guide.  I would never have come across the river at night by myself.  Not because of Rome, but because of me.

Fabio wanted to show me more of the neighborhood, so we walked the streets of Trastevere.  He pointed out more old buildings and beautiful churches, and insisted on taking a picture of me with one.

While he took the picture, a wild-looking dude walked up and opened his mouth right in front of the camera that was balanced on a bush.  Fabio stood up, looked at the guy, and said something to the effect of “now that’s not even funny.”  He was still dressed in his suit from work and looked like he was going to slap the dude, who just shrugged, laughed and walked off.  Fabio’s expression was far from amused.  I was chuckling a little at the interaction.

We walked a bit more, Fabio pointing out his old haunts, especially noting the place where he used to get late night pastry – now closed up.  This was truly a man after my own heart.  Politics and pastry in the same night.

We found the scooter and crossed the river again in search of an excellent cappuccino.  After several u-turns and dead ends (evidently they change the streets around in Rome on a regular basis), we were in a familiar piazza.  I asked him if he’d had the pizza at the little shop.  “You’ve eaten there?”  He was starting to sound like he didn’t believe everything I had done.  I had coffee in the piazza already, but at the place across the street from where we were headed.  It seemed I was one shop away from the purported best coffee in Rome.

We ordered a couple of coffees, and waited at the bar while Fabio explained that many Italians order a glass of water with their coffee in order to cleanse their palate.  I’d noticed the water but didn’t realize its purpose.  The coffee arrived and Fabio insisted on another picture.

“Well, at least you have proove that you were here.”

I can’t really say if the coffee was good.  Fabio seemed mildly pleased, but they had sugared the coffee for us, something I never do, so it was a very different experience.  It was like drinking a cup of flavored sugar, or something from Starbucks.  I finished it off, though, crunching the grains at the bottom of the cup.  I hadn’t had dessert, so the coffee would suffice.

We were in the neighborhood of the original location of Fabio’s university, as well as his high school.  His high school had been housed in the building where Galileo was held while he was on trial.  You could see the observatory where he was working at the time.  Pretty amazing.  Fabio took me around the corner from the coffee shop to show me a little fountain – one of many in Rome.  This one was frequented by students at the university before their exams.  Drinking from the fountain was supposed to bring good luck on the tests.

As I raised my camera to take a picture, Fabio reached out and pulled a bit of garbage from behind one of the concrete spheres, with a disgusted look on his face.  He took the garbage with us and found a garbage can.  This was his city, and he was clearly very proud of it.

It was now almost midnight and we both had early days in the morning.  So we climbed back on the scooter and headed back to my hotel.  I gave him a big American hug and offered to take him around Portland if we found ourselves there at the same time.  He agreed and hopped back on the scooter.  I’m not so sure we’ve got the oldest or most beautiful of anything in Portland, but maybe I could find a friend with a scooter.  Portland might look pretty cool from the back of a scooter.

Rome was fascinating.  I mean, really interesting.  One minute I’d be looking at ancient ruins and the next I’d be in the middle of a political demonstration.  Nuns and well-dressed priests bustled through the streets next to military personnel with machine guns.

As I walked from the Forum to the Pantheon, I enjoyed the opulence, the contradictions and the cacophony of the city.  In one square I found an armored mini-van (bigger vehicles aren’t really practical in the sometimes small streets.

And next to the van a shop selling vestments and day-wear for the cosmopolitan priest.

The pantheon was my sightseeing destination, but first I would revisit the pizza place from the night before.  The same girl was working.  She recognized me and helped me pick out some meat-frea pizzas to try.  Today, it was funghi, and something with gouda cheese.

Yes, yes, the mushrooms look slimy.  It’s possible my sister has now vomited from seeing the little funghi.  (Sorry, Cath.)  They were slimy, and the whole thing had a slightly acidic taste, but it was very interesting, and I was quite hungry, so I had no complaints.  The gouda pizza was yummy.  It had thin slices of zucchini under the cheese, and a nice, smoky flavor.  Plus, the crust itself is some of the best I’ve ever had.

I think maybe I overdid with the amount of pizza I ordered, or maybe it was the speed with which I was eating.  I kept catching the other diners staring at me as we ate together in the outdoor seating area.  I was hungry, and I had a schedule to keep.

Fortunately, the Pantheon was only about a block away.  The front columns of the Pantheon are each 40 feet tall and made of one piece.  They support an immense portico that leads to the interior of the church.

The interior is vast and sparsely decorated.  Tombs (including Raphael’s) ring the beautiful marble floor.  But the real show is above.  The oculus.  A hole in the roof that allowed the construction of the first-of-its kind dome, the oculus provides a pretty spectacular light show, casting shafts of sunlight onto the floor, or ceiling, depending on the time of day.

I have a picture form the University of Virginia that is strikingly similar.  Thomas Jefferson did a nice job with his translation.

Next on my list was a sight that could be explored over the course of years.  I was hoping to do it in an afternoon:  Vatican City.  I’d missed the Pope’s general audience, which was earlier in the day, but I thought I could make up for it by seeing the Vatican museums and St. Peter’s.  And so I started walking.

The Vatican is on the other side of the river from the Pantheon.  I’d made the decision early in the trip to walk to all of my destinations if possible.  I really enjoy seeing a city at street level.  There’s something about the sounds and smells that helps me get a feel for the place.  Anyway, it was a beautiful day for a walk.

I lingered on the bridge and took time to fill my bottle at one of Rome’s friendly drinking fountains.

I caught a glimpse of St. Peter’s and headed around the walls of the city to the Vatican museums.  The 4 miles of museums closed first.  I’d be back for the big church.

This was a museum like I’ve never seen before.  Because of the strange position of Vatican City, the museum is an entry point into the country.  That meant metal detectors, bag screenings and the like.  Then we all crammed ourselves onto escalators that took us up to the museums, bookstores and caffe.

The museums had quite a lot to offer, including phenomenal vistas,

fabulous riches (I’m pretty sure they have the actual golden fleece there somewhere),

and a nice share of irony.  I found it especially amusing to read the official Vatican descriptions of the Egyptian gods in the collection.

I spent my time in the Egyptian and Etruscan rooms, then wandered through halls of tapestries and super-old maps.  Along with 8 gazillion noisy tourists, I arrived in the Raphael rooms, decorated by the master and his students.  Here’s that painting of that arch from the Forum:

Okay, maybe it’s not the same arch, but it looks like maybe it could be.  I’m not so much a scholar in this area.  Regardless, both arches were quite beautiful.

After miles of walking, we came to the part most of the people were looking for – the Sistine Chapel.  There were handy little signs throughout the museums, directing us there.  The entire time.  From the first corridor of the museums.  It was pretty comical, actually to see people choosing their route based on the signs, because they were placed at every turn, and pointed in almost every direction.  There was no quick, direct route.  That left foreign tour groups and field-trips jostling to get to a destination that was about an hour’s walk away.

At this point, even I was duped.  I had found a private tour guide who was speaking to a couple of American ladies, in ‘Merican, so I stuck close and got a little extra info.  There were still a bunch of rooms of newer art.  You know, like Van Gogh.  Amazing stuff.

I was surprised that the Vatican allowed pictures in its museums.  I guess it would be difficult to control, given the volume of visitors, but I was still surprised.  The only place pictures were forbidden was in the beautiful, high-ceilinged Sistine Chapel itself.  The room was darker than I’d expected.  Know that probably sounds pretty ridiculous, but the ceilings were really high.  This is another time I didn’t bring the right gear.  My binoculars stayed at home while I craned my neck to see the famous room.  It was pretty cool.  The frescoes were gorgeous, but I was even more interested to find the hole in the ceiling where they put the stovepipe during the process of selecting a new Pope.

After checking out the frescoes, and watching a few friars doing the same, I followed the tourguide through the shortcut to St. Peter’s.  The basilica is essentially on the other side of the country, so the shortcut was a welcome escape from the long trek back around the city walls.

St. Peter’s, for all its opulence, is a really nice church, I think.  It had a nice feel.  A huge feel, but a nice one.  Its size is pretty much huge.  No, really huge.  I found out later that one of the big churches I’d been walking past, near my hotel, is the exact shape and size of one of the supporting columns inside St. Peter’s.

Being big means that it can hold a lot of things.  St. Peter’s has beautiful marble floors, a huge dome, an immense bronze canopy,

fancy tombs, St. Peter’s throne, and a really old statue of the man himself that’s older than the church.

I waited in line with the other people who were touching his toes, which sit at eye level.  They’ve been touched so many times that they’re shiny and look like they’re melting.  When my turn came I walked up, kissed his foot and immediately sanitized with my bath & body works cherry blossom hand sanitizer.  Why not, really?

At that point, I’d been on my feet for about 8 hours, and was beginning to drag a little.  I found a spot at the base of one of the supporting columns and squatted with the husbands who had been deposited there.  Consulting my guidebook, I discovered that the crypt gave free tours.  Excellent.  That was something I wanted to see.  I thought maybe I’d come back for mass if I was inspired after the crypt.

The sky was turning pink over the square.  I walked past the colorful Swiss Guard, and found Lady Justice (without blindfold) standing overhead.  Well, at least she wasn’t in the crypt…

The crypt was interesting – sterile, but interesting.  There was lots of white marble, and reclining statues of dead popes.  A recording played over and over in different languages reminding people that this was a holy place, and inviting them to remain quiet for reflection.  Most interesting to me was St. Peter’s tomb, which is partially visible from the crypt and from the floor of the basilica, as well as the tomb of Pope John Paul II.  I grew up Catholic under the tenure of this man.  His tomb was brightly lit, very plain, and guarded by a sadly smiling guard who stepped over the ropes to touch holy items to the tomb, handed to him by passing visitors.  I looked in my bag, but didn’t quite think a hot pink pencil made the cut, so I passed nothing over to the dead pope for a blessing.

I returned upstairs too late for the start of mass, but I stood outside the ropes that kept the tourists separated from the worshipers and listened to the call and response in Italian.  Then I headed out.

The square was sparkling after dark, and the walk back was beautiful.  The night was clear and cold and gave fantastic views as I crossed the river again.

It was a long day of sightseeing.  I checked my watch.  I had two hours to walk back to the hotel and get ready for my dinner date.  He’d be arriving at 8 with his motorbike, and I wanted a little rest before the next adventure in Rome.

I took approximately 1000 pictures in the day and a half I spent in Rome.  I’m not a very good photographer, and I tend to use pictures as a note-taking method, but that’s a lot of pictures.  It had something to do with the amount of things I packed into a short amount of time.  I wouldn’t want to see a lot of cities the way I saw Rome, but bustling from location to location seemed to work for me in the eternal city.

I started the morning with breakfast in the hotel.  I got an amazing deal on the room by clicking the “Rick Steves” button on the hotel’s website, which took me to a separate rate listing.  Crazy.  Anyway, the room came with breakfast, which was served in the room basically across the hall from where I was sleeping.  This was nice for a couple of reasons:  1. I was able to have cappuccino in my room, 2. I couldn’t oversleep.  The guests weren’t especially noisy, but the eternally overwhelmed staff person seemed completely unaware that she was, in fact, working in a hotel, which is a service industry, and not serving vagabonds who had taken over her home.  That meant she was not so careful with regards to noise level while setting up for breakfast.

The breakfast was totally adequate and included more of the yogurt and cereal I had come to love in Venice. As well as crusty rolls and individual servings of nutella.  These looked like a perfect snack to me, so they ended up in my bag for later.  I have found that snacks are critical to my happiness while sightseeing.  So I drank my coffee, consulted my guidebook and made a plan for the day.

And the day was an absolutely glorious one.  The rain had cleared to leave perfectly blue skies.  As I walked to my first destination – to Colosseum – I passed many of the things I’d seen the night before.  I’m telling you, seeing Rome at different times of the day is like seeing different cities.

I passed obelisks and ancient markets, and big columns.

And I walked up and down a bunch of hills.  Rome has hills, have you heard?

And then I was at the Colesseum.

It’s big, the Colesseum.  See the little people?  Big.  Being so big, it has really great views of other ruins.

The middle of the structure, where the actual gladiatorial battles were waged was interesting, but kind of scrambled.  They’ve reconstructed part of the floor so you can see where the animals would appear to eat the competitors, so that’s helpful.  Personally, I found the seating areas much more interesting.  Some of the roofing is still intact, but there are portions that look like they’ve melted, leaving really striking images.

I wandered around, feeling a little lost.  What was this place?  Was it a prison?  Was it an arena?  Was it a holy place?  It pretty much encapsulated the contradictions of Rome itself.  Even Greenpeace was having a demonstration on site.

I felt like time stood still while I was inside the Colosseum.  Well, it stood still for everything except my stomach.  When I left, I was hungry, so I reached into my bag for a little snack as I walked to the Forum.  The roll and nutella were perfect.  I’d need my strength for this next bit.  I was looking forward to the Forum, but wasn’t really sure if I’d be able to appreciate it without understanding a lot of the ruins.  Still, I was willing to give it a shot.  I mean, it’s the birthplace of democracy, or something like that.

Okay, there’s a lot going on at the Forum, so I’m going to hit the highlights for me.  They may or may not be in your guidebook next time you’re in Rome.  The thing I liked best was this little path.

It was in front of Constantine’s basilica.  It was peaceful.  I sat there and listened to the birds for quite a while, even though I was on a tight schedule and needed to get moving.  I just wanted to stay there for as long as I could.  Everyone else was taking another route around this area, so I sat in relative quiet, soaking up the Forum (which can be a bit overwhelming).

I also liked the basilica.

The ceiling of the arches was really interesting to me.  I didn’t take a good picture of the entire structure, but I took about 20 of the ceilings.  I sat up here for a while on a hunk of old column that didn’t seem to be needed anymore.

I saw the Senate, and the place where they housed all the lawyers – who were recognized as a needed part of any society – and the rostrum.

I wanted to climb up on the rostrum and give a speech, but I had a lot planned for the afternoon, so I decided I’d rather not go to jail, or spend my day explaining that the rostrum is intended for speech-making – so I just took a pic in front of it.

Oh yes, and the vestal virgins.  I saw their place too.

I saw a lot of other things, too: churches and columns and bricks and marble.  Saw the place where Julius Caesar was cremated.  Saw the arch that Raphael painted in the Vatican.  The one where he has Aristotle walking through the arch with someone else I can’t remember right now.  Yeah, that arch is in the Forum as well.  It’s named after Severus Snape, I believe.

And then I walked up the hill to where Remus and Romulus were raised by the she wolf.  You know, before founding Rome.  It was one of the strangest and most peaceful places I’ve been.  From here I pondered mythology, looked out over the Circus Maximus (which used to be a chariot race-course), and decided I’d better get a move on if I was going to see the Pantheon and the Vatican that afternoon.  It was also time to eat again.  I was hungry from seeing so much before noon.  So I set off, back to the Pantheon and my favorite pizza place.

Warning:  This was a very long day.  You might want to take a nap before reading.

The day started on a good note.  At breakfast I discovered “delichoc,” little containers of a nutella-like substance.  They were hiding among the little containers of jelly.  Suddenly, the nice rolls on the breakfast table became fantastic!  I found myself wondering if I could smuggle some of them, along with the delichoc, out in my shirtsleeves.  Trying to remember how I’d done just that in the college cafeteria, I had to abandon the plan as other guests walked in for breakfast.

I walked out of the hotel into my first sunny day in Venice, and found the sun doing lovely things to the city.

This was my last full day here, and I had a lot left on my list of things to see.  I had planned my day carefully, and hoped that I could use everything I’d learned to keep myself on track.  I tried first for a traghetto ride, but found the stop closed because it was Sunday.  No problem, I knew how to walk where I wanted to go, so I struck out on foot.  They city had a nice surprise for me.  It took me right past the firehouse.

I found the municipal boats of Venice an amusing novelty.  Seeing the firemen scooting around on a little boat was totally entertaining.

When I reached the Rialto bridge, I saw a sign that read “Rialto, the heart of the city.”  “It’s a sinking heart” I thought to myself.  Little did I know…

The first site on my list was the island of Murano, famous for its glass furnaces.  I’d have to take a vaporetto ride out and back.  So, I walked up to the top of Venice, bought a ticket and hopped on a boat.  The ride itself was beautiful, taking me past the dramatic island cemetery.

Murano was a sleepy island with wide canals, interesting public art, and glass everywhere.

I followed the other tourists down the row of formal glass furnaces and shops, across several bridges and to the glass museum.  I spent an hour or so moving through floor after floor of glass exhibits.  From seriously ancient pieces to really old ones, they were all exquisite and fascinating.  But, I had at least three other major sites on my list, and needed probably 30 minutes to get back to the city.  Plus, I had only consumed one coffee, and it was pushing noon.

After a hasty macchiato and a vaporetto ride, I was back in Venice proper, and headed over the Rialto again.  My plan was to visit the Ca’ Pesaro to see its Modern and Asian art museums, before visiting the huge collections at the Correr Museum and then, hopefully, the Accademia.

The bar where I’d grabbed my coffee was so insane that I abandoned hope of trying to get something to eat.  Now I was seriously hungry and beginning to panic.  (Honestly, the only times I panicked in Venice were when I couldn’t find food immediately.  I was in full-on panic.)  I found Ca’ Pesaro – which was in another damn foodless part of town – and went in search of pizza.  There was no pizza.  I walked for at least 20 minutes before settling for a fancyish-looking bar, where I picked up something that looked like a twisted piece of pizza (sfizzaforno, I think it’s called).

For some reason, it took like a zillion years to heat it up.  I stood at the bar the entire time thinking it would come out of the little oven at any moment, and dodging the stares of the barista who was probably wondering why I was standing there with a panicky look.  When it finally emerged from the oven, it was hot – I mean hot.  Still, I shoved half of it in my mouth before I thought to take a picture.  It was tasty, I think.  One caffe later, I felt human enough to try another museum.  I relocated Ca’ Pesaro.

I don’t know if I saw everything in the museum.  I tried.  I think I saw all the great modern art, but the Asian art went on forever.  (And I love Asian art.)  According to the signage, it was originally the personal collection of a guy who became an enemy of the state or a war criminal or something.  The 30,000 items were seized, some were sold, and the rest became the museum.  It was overwhelming.  The swords, armor, guns, saddles, scrolls, lacquered bowls, pots, jade and ivory seemed never-ending.  Unlike other Asian collections I’ve seen, this one was a collection of a single person, and reflected his tastes, as opposed to featuring “culturally significant” works.  The experience was very interesting, but exhausting.  This is where I think I might have missed a couple of rooms, given my state of exhaustion and hunger, and the poorly-marked walking route.  Even so, I saw a lot.  A LOT.  And I had two huge museums left.

Now, I know that it’s best to visit cities like Venice with the thought that you will return.  And it’s not a good idea to pack so many exhibits into a short time, but I really wanted to see the archeological museum at the Correr (which was free to me with the museum pass I bought earlier in the week), and the Leonardo exhibit that was advertised all over town.

So it was back to St. Mark’s piazza where the Correr museum is.  I saw important rooms of a library (I don’t remember which one) and the archeological museum.  This was great.  Lots of ancient sculpture, ancient coins and the machinery to make them, and several galleries of antiquities housed in vacuum-sealed rooms.  And beautiful views of Venice from the gallery windows.

I might have missed some of the rooms (I was still hungry and the routes were confusing to me in my stupor), but I didn’t really care.  I closed down the museum and staggered out to continue my search for pizza.

This time I stepped into the first bar I saw with pizza in the window.  It was thick-crusted, and very different from the other pizza I’ve had in Italy.  It was good, though.  And kept me from having a full on melt-down on my way to the Accademia.

When I bought my ticket at the Accademia museum, I was super-excited to find that it was discounted.  I didn’t ask why, but the 1.50 would buy another piece of pizza, so I was happy.  Inside, there were galleries of great collections.  Series after series of paintings commissioned regarding specific topics.  They were enormous works filled with religious scenes.  The most interesting to me was a room filled with huge paintings of scenes depicting the miracles of the relic of the true cross.  Strange scenes of exorcisms and priests swimming in the canals of Venice were even more interesting as my head started swimming from everything I’d seen that day.  Helpfully, the exhibits had excellent English-language explanations, which was nice.  I was able to give my brain a break from the non-stop translating that it undertakes each day, and just lean back on the padded benches to enjoy the paintings.

About halfway through the museum, I found the reason for the discounted entry.  A couple of the major galleries were closed.  Frankly, I was relieved.  I was tired.  But there was one last thing I wanted to see before I ventured out into the city in search of dinner.  Leonardo.

I’d seen posters for the exhibit all over the city, and wondered what, exactly, the exhibit would be.  When I first stepped into the tiny room housing the special exhibit, I was a little disappointed.  There was just one piece in the darkened room.  One little sketch.  This is what all the fuss was about?  And then I stepped in front of it.  The posters weren’t just using the “Vitruvian Man” sketch as an advertisement for Leonardo, they were advertising the exhibition of the piece itself.  (I learned later that the sketch is actually housed at the Accademia, but is rarely exhibited.)

It was remarkably powerful.  And beautiful.  The rust-colored ink on the camel colored paper was bold and clear.  Everyone in the room was silent.  Absolutely absorbed.  This was a nice surprise to end a long day of art, much of which will run together when I look back on the day.  Of the thousands of objects I saw, this one will stand out.

I knew that with certainty.  And I knew something else, as well – I was hungry again.

Every day in Venice has been like a gang initiation.  I wake up, pretty much alone.  I’ve been stripped of everything familiar to me, and wondering what the day will bring.  Even when I think that I’ve figured something out – where a building is, how to get there – the city, which I swear can sense pride, knocks my feet out from me.  Then, on its own terms, it gives back to me.

After breakfast at the hotel, I gathered my supplies for the day (I still had half of my picnic from the day before, and was confident enough to take only about half of my tourist info with me).

The plan for the day was to see the rest of St. Mark’s and then, maybe see another museum.  I absolutely knew how to walk to St. Mark’s now, so I’d probably be done by noon, leaving lots of time to do whatever I found myself in the mood to do.

I’d had good success with the tragetti yesterday, so I thought I’d try again.  Consulting a map, I found a stop.  It was a decent hike away, but it would put me right at St. Mark’s, and the hike would take me past a the Salute church, which I’d wanted to see, out on the point of the peninsula on the east end of Dorsoduro.  I have no idea how I did it, but I ended up on the wrong side of the peninsula.  I think I picked the wrong church to navigate by – or I held my map upside down, or something.  I walked for at least 30 minutes, maybe more, before I realized that the open water I was dutifully keeping on my left was the wrong water, and I’d walked in the entirely opposite direction from Salute.

It may have been at this point that I realized I am in possibly the worst shape of my life.  I think it’s even worse than when I was a baby and unable to hold my head up.  My calves were like granite from the week of intense walking I’d forced upon them, but one of my feet was refusing to flex appropriately.  Only when I slowed down to a stroll did the pain go away.

Fricking city slowing me down.

So I turned around and walked the entire length of the peninsula, slowly, past the pink-glassed lanterns of Venice, to the tip of the peninsula and finally to the Salute church.  Where there was no traghetto stop.

I consulted my map and felt like “Tom Tom” recalculating routes on the fly.  There was another traghetto stop just on the other side of the church.  I could bop in, take a look around, and then catch the boat across the canal.  No problem.

The Salute church is beautiful.  I played musical tabernacles, trying to figure out which of the 6 or so chapels housed the Eucharist.  (I try hard not to totally offend every culture I come in contact with, but there were candles lit everywhere, and it was practically impossible for me to tell.  So, I chose the one with holy water close by, genuflected, and continued my walk around the church.)  The sacristy had some beautiful art, and I felt compelled to light a candle for the health of my family.

Then I was ready to make my way to St. Mark’s, which was, after all, my original goal.

I was able to find the traghetto stop, but it was roped off and clearly closed.  The detour treated me to some beautiful views of the Canal, and now I was in a totally new place – an opportunity to see new streets and squares.  Also, I was hungry and caffeine deprived.  I’d only had one cappuccino, and breakfast seemed ages away.  I needed coffee and pastry asap.

This should have been easy, but for some reason, I chose only the streets that had no food and very few shops.  I started to panic a little.  This is Italy.  Where, for the love of all that is holy, was the coffee?  Perhaps I should have lit a candle at the church of caffee and paste.  Finally, I passed a moderately busy bar and walked in.  They had pretty much no pastry, but did have a pile of sandwiches and an espresso maker.  I picked out a crustless wonder and pointed.  “Questa” and a macchiato.

I’ve stopped drinking cappuccino after noon, because of the looks I get.  Macchiato, which has about half the milk but all the caffeine, seems more acceptable to the locals.  When in Rome…or Venice, or whatever.  The sandwich was egg and asparagus, and it was perfect.  I should have had three or four.

After my refueling, I took a peek at where I was on the map and plotted a course for St. Mark’s.  It was now almost lunchtime

When I arrived at the piazza, the sun was starting to peek through the grey mat that had lain over the city for two days.  St. Mark’s was even more luminous than it had been the day before.

Today, I took in the murals of the basilica, saw the golden altarpiece, and climbed the steps to see the horses that adorn the face of the church.  Both the replicas and the originals were beautiful, and the views from the terrace were excellent.

While in Venice, I got a number of workouts.  My legs walked me all over the city, my mind got a nice dose of orienteering, and my stomach went through a stretching routine.  Every night I packed it full, and every afternoon it demanded refilling.  It was maybe 30 seconds after I walked out of St. Marks that I jammed the remains of yesterday’s cheese into my mouth, having unwrapped it as I walked down the steps.  Passersby stared a little as I munched and raised my eyebrows in greeting.  The cheese and remaining bread was good, but I was in serious need of something more.  I needed pizza.  And I needed a nap.  Growing up, it was common wisdom that you shouldn’t eat and sleep immediately, but it was also common wisdom that you don’t drink coffee right before bed, either.  I’m still getting used to both ideas.  This day, however, I was going to eat pizza and climb into bed.  I might even bring pizza back to the room where I could eat it IN bed.

Once again, I chose streets that didn’t have food.  This was one of Venice’s cruel tricks, breaking me down to build me up again.  And it was working.  I was frantic.  A sandwich just wasn’t going to cut it this time.  I wanted pizza.  I was almost back to the hotel.  This was not good.  I’d decided not to eat at the same place twice, but this was bordering on emergency.  I pulled out the map, located the square where I’d had pizza the first day, and headed directly there.

One bite, and I was okay.  The city had given back.

I resisted the urge to have another 6 pieces.  It was afternoon, and I wanted to have a decent dinner.  Plus there was a gelato shop on the way back that I wanted to try.

My brain was addled form the scare of not immediately finding pizza, so I forgot to take a moment to shift my language to Italian.  I spent a lot of time alone in Venice, which meant talking to myself in my head, which is still in English.  If I can take a minute before I step into a situation, I can shift my language to Italian as much as possible.  This time, I forgot.  This might have been partially due to the attractive woman who was standing behind the counter.  It’s kind of a miracle I didn’t smile nervously and run out of the shop.

Instead, I picked out a size – in Italian – but she responded in English.  That’s always disappointing.  With a simple “questo” I’m found out.  Oh well.  Momentarily, I gave up.  Instead of nicciola, I ordered hazelnut.  “Just hazelnut?”  She was surprised.  “Oh, no…what would you recommend.”  I almost always choose hazelnut and then ask for a recommendation for a pairing.  That way I know I’ve got something I’ll like, and I also have the opportunity to try something I wouldn’t otherwise.

She smiled, and disappeared to a back bank of freezers.  I paid, wondering what I’d get.  When she reappeared, she was still smiling and handed me the cup.  “Grazie.”  My language shifter was stuck between English and Italian and I couldn’t think how to ask her what it was.  As I walked out, she said after me, “oh, con marron glace!”  I tried to look excited, smiled and stepped outside.  What the hell was marron glace?

I filled my little plastic spoon.  Marron glace is damn good, that’s what it is.  I tasted the gelato, trying to isolate one of the chunks that dotted the creamy goodness.  It dissolved.  “Perhaps chestnut?”  I thought to myself.  The consistency wasn’t quite right, but the flavor was close.  Soon, I stopped trying to figure it out, and just let the excellent gelato melt in my mouth.  Tasty.  The shop was the exact right distance from the hotel for eating a medium gelato.

I ate the last spoonful as I walked in the door to the hotel, up the stairs, and climbed in bed for a nap.  Maybe it was a bad idea to nap directly after pizza, but napping directly after gelato felt utterly acceptable.