Why Italy?

Well, there are a lot of answers to that question. Ginny is half Italian ancestry (her mother's side) and has some relatives living in Rome. Add to that the fact that I passed on the opportunity to go there in '79 after I finished school at Kean. My art history professor invited me to accompany him at his expense while he renewed old contacts and friendships and supervised the publication of a catalog of some of the artifacts he had collected over a long career. I decided at that time to beg off on the invitation as I was worried about what might be expected of me once in Italy.

At any rate, this trip was our second to the old country. Ginny and I went there in '84 for our honeymoon. We had a great time as we discovered how foundless so many of our apprehensions and misgivings turned out to be. But we came home from that first trip without having seen her relatives, with most of the pictures I took in Rome and Florence ruined (I didn't have my boob proof camera set to automatic aperture), and with a sense of how very little we had seen. We both hoped that someday we would return.

So, what better way to celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary than to make it a second honeymoon? We may just make this a regular sort of thing!

*****

We decided to closely approximate our last trip in terms of arrangements. Part of the reason for this was that Ginny's mother was accompanying us this time and we knew we would be more comfortable if we were not going to be too adventurous. We booked what is known as an independent tour with American Express. Basically, you have all of your travel arrangements between the U.S. and Italy as well as between cities in Italy provided for. And your hotel arrangements as well. Your baggage is handled for you which really makes the trip a vacation. Your time is completely your own but the tour does provide a half day of sightseeing in each city on the itinerary. This is great for first timers as you are sure to see the major sights and you have a chance to get your bearings for the rest of your stay in the city. An American Express agent is usually available at your hotel each morning and can help make arrangements for day trips, restaurants, theatres, and the like. So, if you ever do something like this I would suggest that you check into this type of tour. Most of the details you don't want to worry about are taken care of for you but you aren't locked into the dreaded "17 cities in 5 countries in 14 wonderful days" tour syndrome.

We flew Alitalia, Italy's national airline. We could have gone Pan Am but we felt safer on Alitalia. Also, they have the best airline food I've ever had, although I have never flown any other airline internationally. The service is great and for you gals, they employ mostly stewards, all good looking Italian guys who are unfailingly charming and attentive. It is an 8 hour flight but everything that can be done to make you comfy, is done. Wine with dinner, slippers for your feet, blankets and pillows, free movie, free headphones to listen to a variety of music channels. Some of the best Moments I've spent in the air have been on the two trips over. Leaving in the late afternoon from New York brings you over France and the Alps and down the western coastline of Italy to Roma in the early morning sunshine...

*****

Back to Roma. Right away, one is struck by the external difference in security between Italian international airports and those in the U.S. After passport control (the official actually looked at my passport picture and my face this time) we had a few minutes to wait for our luggage. This gave Mom a chance to find a restroom; Ginny a chance to change a 100,000 lira note for some smaller bills (its always a good idea to exchange $100 or so into the local currency before you leave the States, especially if you are arriving abroad on a weekend as we did); and me a chance to observe the armaments of the airport guards. Almost all of them sported automatic weapons with clips that appeared to give them anywhere from 2 to 4 dozen rounds of ammo. I pondered what kind of havoc they might wreak on terrorists and tourists alike if a gun battle should break out. Oh well, travelling abroad has always been an adventure. Not to dampen anyone's spirits about Italy, but I'll conclude this aspect of our trip by mentioning that shortly after our visit in '84 several terrorist attacks occurred in Italy. In one, several people were killed in an attack at that very airport. Another involved the bombing of a train from Rome to the north of Italy (which we had taken on that first trip to get from Rome to Florence). The other incident involved an attack, I believe with grenades, on the Via Veneto (near the U.S. Embassy) in Rome. But, why worry? We would probably get shot up at the local McDonalds if we stayed home to avoid such nasty business.

As we had decided to go several days prior to the start of our tour, we had to make our own arrangements for the first few days, including getting from the airport to Rome. We had done the same thing the last time over and had ended up taking a gypsy cab that cost 50,000. The cabby then didn't speak any English (except for numbers, of course) and had gotten us safely to our hotel only after turning in the opposite direction from the sign for Roma ("Psst, Ginny, I think he's a terrorist kidnapper.") and nearly screeching to a halt on the highway to ask if anything was wrong ("Okay? okay?") when Ginny and I started talking excitedly about how beautiful the morning air felt. This time Ginny wanted nothing to do with gypsy cabs and when one driver approached us and told us we need only part with 70,000 lira to get to our hotel, she showed the good sense to insist we go to the cab stand where we got a legit metered taxi that ended up costing about 43,000 (50,000 with the tip).

All of the cars (well, nearly all of them) in Italy are what we would call compacts and subcompacts. Mopeds and motorcycles abound as well as small vehicles that look like half sized vans or pickups but are really motorcycles with a cab enclosing the driver. Gas is expensive, probably about twice what it costs us, and the smaller and lighter the vehicle the easier it is on your wallet. In addition, the extremely crowded conditions in a city like Roma place a premium on vehicles that don't take up much parking space. I was surprised to see a number of Mercedes painted yellow and serving as taxis. I still wonder if they cost more than the regular cabs. maybe the next time we go, we'll find out.

*****

We stayed at the Hotel Anglo Americano. This hotel was rated superior tourist (in other words, okay but not first class) and although small and with a dim interior, it served a substantial all you can eat continental breakfast, was clean, and well situated for sightseeing. It was directly across the street from a bank where we could exchange our traveller's checks with a minimum of fuss and fees and some of the best exchange rates we encountered. The hotel is just off the Piazza Barberini (piazza = plaza/square). The Barberini were substantial citizens in Papal Rome and they provided at least one pope (I believe during the Baroque period) to the faithful. Their palazzo (palace) stands directly behind the hotel and is now a museum. The Via Quattro Fontane (via = street, way, avenue, boulevard, etc.) on which the hotel fronts features an intersection a block away from the piazza with a fountain on each corner (hence the street's name). Taking the street in that direction leads you to one of the four basilicas in Rome, Santa Maria Maggiore (Saint Mary Major).

In the other direction, across the piazza and down just two blocks is the top of the Spanish Steps and one of the many Egyptian obelisks ripped off by the Romans and now on display throughout the city. The Spanish Steps are famous as one of the artistic hangouts of Rome and a congregating point for the younger tourist set. Artists will do your portrait for anywhere from 30,000 to 50,000 (or a caricature for perhaps 15,000 to 20,000) as you sit on the steps in the bright sun and the light breeze that tends to sweep the city during late May afternoons. Below the steps is one of the most fashionable shopping areas in Roma. Lots of clothes and the prices were geared to the tourists who just have to have something of Italian fashion to brag on at home. Ginny looked at a lot of bathing suits but couldn't find anything that suited her taste, her figure, and her pocketbook.

Going back to the Piazza Barberini and exiting it diagonally from Via Quattro Fontane is the 5th Avenue of Roma, the Via Veneto. Perhaps only 5 or 6 blocks in length, it features wide sidewalks that sport several outdoor cafes, including the famous "American Bar", all well shaded by stately trees as well as canvas tenttops. At the far end of the Via Veneto is one of the gates in the walls that defended and delineated the old city. Past those gates are the grounds of the Villa Borghese which now serves as Roma's "Central Park". If you ever make it to Roma I recommend taking a stroll through the Villa gardens followed by a cool drink at one of the cafes on Via Veneto. By the way, the American Embassy is right on the Via Veneto so don't be surprised by the number of police in the area and the armaments they carry. Most public government buildings are guarded in a fashion similar to that described in the airport. There seemed to be extra police on duty while we were there and it turned out that George Bush was in Roma towards the end of our stay. That probably explains the many pictures of him that we saw posted in the windows of the Via Veneto shops. I was beginning to wonder if the Italians had completely lost their heads until I heard of his visit.

*****

The hotel sported two small elevators to carry the leg weary to any of the six floors. From what I could tell they were retrofitted to the building and definitely were custom made. One of them was almost triangular in shape and resulted in the first of several impromptu Italian lessons we were to receive during our stay. After checking in (you will be asked to leave your passport with the hotel clerks, who then report your presence in the city to the local authorities and return the passport upon request), we boarded this funny little elevator to reach our rooms. Still in a bit of a daze from the long hours of the trip we stood there oblivious to the bellman with our bags on a handcart who could not get them on the elevator. He gestures and says "Prego!". Okay, pisan, we're aboard, get on in here and let's go. He shakes his head, gestures to the corner of the elevator and again, "Prego". Ah, what dunderheads we are. He wants us to move to the small side of the lift so that he can push the cart aboard. Prego must mean something along the lines of please or excuse me. Thank god the Italians are so adept at non verbal communication. If he hadn't gestured we might still be standing with idiotic looks on our faces in that tiny elevator.

You might expect that after a 2 hour flight from Atlanta; a 4 hour layover in New York in which we had to bus from LaGuardia Airport to Kennedy Airport (Delta doesn't fly into Kennedy and Alitalia doesn't fly out of LaGuardia); an 8 hour flight to Roma; and another hour to get to the hotel, we might have just collapsed into bed to awaken bleary eyed and out of synch hours later. Not to be! Mom was too filled with excitement of a lifelong dream becoming reality and both Ginny and I were filled with eager anticipation heightened by memories of our first trip. And then the phone rang!

Mom's relatives have an apartment in Roma and also have a farm outside the city. Ginny and I had tried unsuccessfully to contact them 5 years ago. This time they knew our itinerary and made sure the opportunity to visit was not missed. And well it might have been since they spoke only Italian and we understood hardly a word. Mom talked first with the father and then with the mother and it was obvious that no information was flowing. Finally, they hung up on her. Down we go to the lobby and our life savers, the English speaking clerks. Mom explains the situation and they agree to make the call and translate for us. Just as the call is going through, another clerk asks if there is a "Johnson" present. Hey Mom, this is for you! How can this be? She has them on one line and they are calling again on another? No, its their son, Johnnie calling from somewhere else to explain that he will be at our hotel in about an hour to drive us to Sunday dinner with his folks.

Johnnie escorts us to his car, shoehorned into a bit of sidewalk space, motor running and wife Gabrielle ready to argue away any constabulary who might feel inclined to pick a small nit over one somewhat illegally parked car in a city where any paved spot is almost immediately covered by an idle auto. They own a brand new Saab, almost identical to the model Ginny and I have and this gives us something to talk about as he zips along. Saabs aren't common in Roma due to size and price and it is obvious that Johnnie and Gabrielle are doing well. We ask about their professions and apparently Johnnie knows computers as he rattles off acronyms like MVS when I tell him what I do. Meanwhile, we flash by Santa Maria Maggiore and then Saint John in Lateran (a second of the four basilicas of Roma), both of which I remember and point out to Ginny and Mom. If only I could learn languages with the speed and facility that I have for history and places. After Saint John in Lateran we take a turn into a portion of the city we didn't trek during our first visit and then I am thoroughly lost. Meanwhile, Johnnie is doing his casual best to show why Italian drivers are known for their daring driving and passion for cars. I'm a fairly tame driver myself but am not uncomfortable with fast and skillful drivers until this drive. Finally I settle down with the thought that he knows what he's doing and its his brand new car he's putting on the line. Besides, while the Saab just isn't big enough to sport a Fiat as hood ornament, the Fiat drivers don't care to test the idea.

*****

Leonard and his wife greet us with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. Smiles and laughter all around. Both were to the States some years ago and remember Mom from that visit. Leonard gives us the grand tour of the apartment which was cool and quiet after the heat and noise of the early afternoon drive. Then to the important things! Dinner is served. A goodly sized bowl of ziti makes its way to the table. We have our choice of wines (russo - red, bianco - white), home made on the farm naturally. Bread (pane) is everywhere in abundance as well as mineral water (acqua minerale). So are the cheeses, grated for the pasta, one sharp and pungent variety made on the farm and another purchased. A dish of peas from the farm makes its appearance and my taste buds do a miniature 4th of July fireworks celebration. The pasta is just about gone and as the dish is taken up from the table I volunteer to make sure it leaves empty. Bravissimo, Fredo! I'm deep into the task of packing it all away when a dish of meatballs and braichole appears. Eyes rolling and stomach slowly distending with the effort I manage to acquit myself honorably even through the cheeses also being served about this time. More vino, Fredo? Si Leonard, russo, gracia. We go to work on a Provolone, which Leonard says can't be found in the stores, as well as a kind of cream cheese. A third cheese, from northern Italy, which tested and smelled the way I would imagine an inner tire tube would, also made the rounds. Finally, dolci, a cake oozing with a strong liquor.

Afterwards, we take pictures on their balcony and sit down to visit. We had trouble deciding on a present to bring them and I finally had suggested Ginny and Mom find a photo essay coffee table type book featuring scenes from the States. They eventually picked out a book of Norman Rockwell illustrations which is probably as perfect a gift as one might find to give to someone who doesn't read English. We all share a good chuckle of the illustration of a family in the car, first on their way to a picnic and then on the return. Mom and Leonard compare pictures from their visit to the States and she has some family relationships explained. Finally, more hugs, kisses, and goodbyes as the folks will be heading back to the farm in a day or two and Johnnie and Gabrielle will be leaving later in the week to vacation and ski in the Italian Alps. As we leave Leonard opens up a small room on the ground floor of the building which he uses for storage. Several bottles of wine from the farm end up in a bag and are his parting gift to us. Compared to Americans, these people waste little. The bottles are recycled beer bottles, and instead of corks Leonard has a small hand operated bottle capper to put up the fruits of his labors.

*****

Don't expect to go to a place like Roma and see everything. In fact, you can't and won't, no matter how you might plan and try. In Roma's case, there is simply too much from too long a span of history. Two other reasons present themselves as well.

First, restoration and preservation are ongoing and never ending tasks, not to mention basic archeology which adds to the burden of the restorers. Some monument or building is bound to be enshrouded in scaffolding and green netting as the restorers work on it. Usually it is the monument or building you had set your heart on seeing. On our first trip to Italy the Arch of Constantine was being worked on. This trip, we could see the arch for the first time but archaeologists were still working in the area and the Arch itself was cordoned off from the public. The Trevi Fountain was being restored this time around and was drained dry and almost completely obscured by the workmen's scaffolding. In Firenze (Florence), the interior of the dome of the cathedral was being restored when we visited 5 years ago and is still being worked on. In Milano, DaVinci's Last Supper has been in the process of restoration for over 5 years. In addition, you can hardly walk through a museum without passing empty display cases or bare spots where a painting has been removed. You hardly need to understand Italian to know the explanatory card says the object is either being restored or is on loan to another museum or is part of a travelling exhibition.

The second reason for not trying to see everything is actually germane to any museum experience. Your senses can absorb only so much of it all. Slogging through museum after museum, building after building, site after site will only exhaust you physically and mentally. If you take this approach you may see it all but you will remember very little of it and enjoy even less. My art professor at Kean was a firm believer in experiencing art as opposed to merely studying it. He held that a visit to any museum that lasted longer than 45 minutes was a waste. My experience has been the same.

One approach to sightseeing in Italy is to spend your time before your trip and do some "homework" to compose a hit list of things to do and see. If you have a strong predilection for a certain style or period, then make that the focal point of your tour plans. If you don't care for a certain style or period then don't waste your time by seeing something from the period because it is considered historically important or is a masterpiece. Its your money, your time, your trip, your vacation, so be consistent and ensure that it's your taste and desires that are satisfied. To give you an example, I abhor the Baroque period and style. All froth and ostentatious frivolity, as far as I'm concerned. The Palazzo Barberini, right behind the Anglo Americano, houses a collection noted for its Baroque works. I've yet to visit it. Nor did we visit the small church, considered a Baroque masterpiece, just one block away from the hotel at the four fountains. Conversely, we sought out everything we could find by Michelangelo and also anything featuring Etruscan works. That led us to all four of Michelangelo's Pietas among many other of his works as well as the Etruscan Museum in Roma and a tiny jewel of a museum in Fiesole, a small town in the hills above Firenze.

We were not slaves of an itinerary however as our trip took more than one delightfully fortuitous turn after another. Fiesole was one such turn I'll write about later. The Via Appia Antica was another we enjoyed while in Roma as was the morning we spent sitting under a bright sun in the Piazza San Pietro awaiting Il Papa.

Somewhere, either Mom or Ginny had read that the Pope was giving a public audience on the Wednesday that we were in Roma. Now, neither are Catholic but the stature of the man cast a certain spell on them both and they were determined to see Il Papa if at all possible. I was ambivalent about the event as I had had my fill of the Catholic Church and its ceremonies long ago when I served as an altar boy. I was also somewhat ambivalent about the man and had often taken delight in teasing Ginny when she told me she would like to see him. "He's the guy who said women shouldn't have an equal place in the Church, and therefore by implication aren't on an equal status with men in the eyes of God, and you still want to see him?"

Well, however it came about, we walked down to St. Peter's square that morning. The sun was bright and it was a light airy morning for walking so I didn't complain. Besides, my sister Nancy has asked for a rosary blessed by the Pope as a gift from our first trip and I hadn't been able to get it for her then so this would be my only chance this time around. Nine O'Clock and the Square lies open before us. It slopes up towards St. Peters and this gives you a broad panorama of the entire square. Perhaps a hundred tour busses have already arrived and spilled their loads of the faithful from many lands onto the entrance to the square. The entire square is closed off by heavy duty barricade fences and people are entering through the barricades at three points after presenting tickets and showing the contents of their bags and camera cases to the Vatican's version of the caribineri. The upper half of the square (it is actually round, being enclosed by a massive collonade, designed I believe by Bernini, to represent the arms of St. Peter encircling the flock) has rows upon rows of folding chairs deployed to accept those lucky folk with passes. Its obvious that Il Papa's appearance is not to come for some time yet as there are many empty chairs and streams of people still slowly making their way through the checkpoints. We find a small religious artifacts shop just outside the square where I pay the ridiculous sum of 20,000 lira for a no frills rosary. Why didn't I ask Nancy to send me her rosary? I don't begrudge the money but I feel stupid for not doing things "right" and preparing for this eventuality.

Back to the barricade at the entrance to the square. At the base of the steps up to the basilica a raised stage with canvas awning has been erected from which the Pope will address the crowd. It must be nearly 300 or 400 yards away. Well at least we'll be able to see him. But Mom is not content. She sees too many people walking around without passes and decides to find out what is going on. Ginny and I watch as she approaches the central checkpoint and start talking (right! She in English and he in Italian, no doubt) with one of the officials there. Then, all of a sudden she's through the checkpoint and with a cat that ate the canary grin she turns and waves to us before walking further into the square. Come on Ginny, lets see if we can figure out the magic word as well. Over we go to the checkpoint. The guard doesn't ask for anything but with a motion of his hand indicates that we must show him what we have in the bags we carry. That done, we are also through and walking up towards the Egyptian obelisk that stands in the center of the square. Mom starts to tell us how she asked if she needed a pass. "He just said, paass! so I asked him again, yes how do I get one? Again he says Paass! and with a sweep of his hand lets me know that yes I should pass through!" It turns out that the passes entitle holders to sit in the section closest to the podium where the Pope will sit. All of the other seats are there for the taking if you are smart enough to just ask.

Il Papa does not make his appearance until well after 11. We pass the time watching people shift their chairs in order to stay in the shadow of the obelisk. Mom has Ginny take her picture next to one of the Swiss Guards. Mostly we watch the crowd as it manages to mill about even through all of the cross barricades dividing the sections and the many rows of chairs. Hundreds of schoolchildren have journeyed from Napoli and they parade in to their reserved seats, each class headed and identified by a child with a posterlike sign. I work on a tan and the International edition of USA Today as I wait. Actually, they should call the newspaper, USA The Day Before Yesterday. All of the boxscores are two days old and I wonder how my rotisserie team is doing (actually, when we left for Italy my team was in next to last place, so I know how they are doing, but I wonder if somehow they might actually be doing a little better).

Now, after almost 2 and a half hours of waiting, Il Papa enters the square. He is riding in a specially built car that places his upper torso well above the crowd so that all can see him. He proceeds, not directly to the podium, but down completely past the front row and then turns down the left side of the crowd. Eventually, the car takes another right hand turn and now he is moving down the corridor between the reserved seats and the peanut gallery where we are sitting. If we had only known, we could have sat closer to this corridor and have had him pass within a few yards of us. I manage to snap several pictures while complaining that he faces only the folks in the reserved seats. But then he makes a second circuit of the reserved seats but focuses his attention outward towards us. More frantic pictures and I hope one or two will turn out well.

For us, Il Papa's circuit of the crowd was the high point of the day. Now he ascends the podium and speaks to the crowd. In Italian, naturally, Then, a monsignor relays the messages of the well wishers and groups from France. As each group is named, a tiny group of people leap up, cheering and waving banners and flags. Eventually, the list is finished and Il Papa repeats his address in French. The pattern repeats. Now Spanish, Now German, Now English, finally Polish. I focus on Il Papa, perhaps 150 yards away. Another group is named and the calculated celebration erupts from still another tiny group in the monstrous crowd. Il Papa, who is slouched sideways in his chair with elbow braced against the armrest and hand supporting head, stirs slightly and gives a desultory wave of hand as the group just mentioned basks in the glow of attention. It's all over soon enough. People are packing their rosaries away, some with as many as two or three dozen to be taken home and given as cherished gifts to friends and relatives.

*****

I mentioned earlier that one of my primary interests during the trip was the work of Michelangelo. Roma offers three important pieces of his artistry in the most famous of his four Pietas, the ceiling and front wall of the Sistine Chapel, and his Moses. He also had a hand in much of the design of St. Peter's including, I believe, the dome and the piazza.

We walk, our primary means of transportation for most of our tour, to St. Peter's early in the day. First stop is at the Pieta, displayed behind thick bulletproof glass that encloses the side chapel the statue is kept in. The poor light requires a flash for proper pictures but flashes are not permitted. A huge crowd is always in front of the glass, milling and shuffling as people attempt to pose for pictures with the Pieta in the background. Oddly enough, the mass confronting us as we attempt a better view is composed of that crowd of picture snapping Japanese tourists so aptly described in another contribution to this thread. Take my advice, don't go to look at the Pieta if your aim is to appreciate the work. That is patently impossible given the poor lighting, the physical distance that the glass keeps the crowd at (30 or 40 feet), the reflections off the glass, the constant noise and movement of the crowd, the intermittent flash of a tourist's camera. Both times I have seen the Pieta in Roma make me think back to when I saw it in '64 at the New York World's Fair. That time, the viewing environment was a deliberate creation for the work and it was a moving experience (literally moving as well, since you viewed that statue from a flat "escalator" that slowly carried you past the work). Given that first experience with such monumental art it is very sad to see the statue "dumped" into such a totally inappropriate environment.

Down the central aisle we go. My memory for architectural terms is rusty. Let's see, this is known as the nave (?). Brass plaques are imbedded in the marble floor, each indicating the length of the nave of one of the other great cathedrals of the world. St. Peter's is the largest by far. We reach the crossing or transept and look up into the far space enclosed under the dome. At the center of the crossing is the ciborium (?) or ornamental canopy above the crypt. Further on is the apse where the main altar is positioned. We sit for awhile and ponder the immensity of the enclosed space as this is without a doubt the largest enclosed area we have ever been in. The piers supporting the dome are so wide and massive that over the years they have found a second function as backdrops for sepulchers and even small altars. Built into one pier is the entrance to the crypt and down we go. The crypt is immense in its own way in keeping with the proportions of the basilica and we pass by row after row of sepulchers under the plastered white arch vaults that form a low ceiling above us. I wonder how many popes there have been and of them, how many now repose here. If you want roman numerals then this crypt is a good place to start. John XXIII, Paul VI, John Paul I.

Leaving the vault takes us up and outside. Time for the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel. This requires that we walk down the side of the piazza and through the collonade to a side street. We are outside the Vatican now and follow along a high stone wall with an occasional sign reading Museo Vaticano. On the way Ginny and I think back to our first visit. We had signed up for one of the optional half day tours given by American Express which included the basilicas St. John in Lateran and St. Paul Outside the Walls as well as St. Peter in Chains where the Moses resides, the catacombs, St. Peter's and the Vatican Museum. All in half a day! We finished with the Vatican Museum and when we arrived at the Sistine Chapel our guide took us aside and explained that he wasn't permitted to speak while we were in the chapel. He told us he would wait at the other end and we were on our own. And we were because he thought we would be out in perhaps 5 minutes or so. Half our group had been waiting all morning for this one Moment and upon emerging from the chapel some time later the guide was long gone along with our ride back to the hotel. So it goes. The museum closes at about 2 PM each day and no one is allowed to enter after about 1:30 PM. We haven't too much time so we decide to forego all other museum attractions in favor of spending what time we have in the chapel. This means passing up some rooms painted by Raphael. We have to prod Mom more than once as she slackens her pace to look at what we know are mere side attractions.

Finally, into the chapel through a tiny door that feels as if it will press your shoulders together. We are fortunate today. The crowd is beginning to thin due to it being so close to closing time. A bench runs down each side of the room and we soon find space to sit. Now we can finally crane our necks backwards and take it all in. Or most of it, because the restorers are here this time. An I-beam rail has been installed at the top of each wall to support a huge rolling scaffold that the restorers work from. They have been working from the foot of the room up and are very near the front wall which features Michelangelo's eerie Last Judgement. On the ceiling, the panels The Creation of Adam and The Serpent in the Garden of Eden are restored and provide an effect totally different from what we experienced five years ago. Dirt and soot are gone and light and vibrant hues of blues, greens, reds, yellows, roses, and even browns once again attest to Michelangelo's genius. Old Testament prophets sit in arched side panels and mirror our awed gaze with dignity and solemnity. Each pillar of their enclosing arches features a pair of naked youths or perhaps nymphs in playful counterpoint to the biblical heavies all about them.

The Last Judgement is by contrast a moody and somber work and perhaps even when cleaned and restored it will remain that way. Here below are the unfortunates who did not heed the word of God and are cast headlong into the maelstrom of evil that awaits to gather them back into its bosom and clutch them in timeless torment. Near the top are the blessed spirits who rise unfettered by any weighty sins to light and life. And near the middle of the work is Michelangelo himself. He represented his soul as a limp skin held by another who seems to be appealing to God sitting in judgement above. I think he struggled much during his life with the question of faith. As do so many of us in many different ways.

*****

Italian television is something you have to experience. Imagine the Duke saying "Hello pilgrim" in Italian! Or Laverne and Shirley telling Squiggy and Lenny to buzza off. Although a lot of American TV is dubbed and syndicated in Italy, there seems to be plenty of home grown material for the boob tube.

Football (soccer, to us) is very big and there is a match on almost every evening as well as highlights from the Italian League play and scores from most of the other European first division leagues. Milan was contesting the European Basketball Championships and their games were also televised. The Tour of Italy, or Giro d'Italia, the next most important and prestigious bicycle stage race after Le Tour de France was in full swing during our stay and I managed to take in several of the stage race summaries, comprising about 30 minutes each evening. Alas, LeMond was buried in the standings and Andy Hampsten, last year's Giro winner, had all he could do to stay in the top ten.

The cartoon shows appear to be home grown although I wouldn't swear to it as it has been a while since I've gotten up early enough on a Saturday to check out the swill the American stations are ladling out to our kids.

The shows most revealing of the popular Italian culture were game shows, of which I remember two, OK and Planto. OK was an Italian version of The Price is Right. Contestants were selected from the audience. Four would compete to guess the price of an item. The closest without going over then qualified for further variations on guessing prices. Eventually two or three would qualify to spin a wheel and attempt to record a value as near 100 as possible without exceeding it. They got a second try if they wanted it but if they spun again then both scores were added. Usually someone would score an 85 or 90 on their first try and win... which qualified them for the final test which would be against one other competitor who qualified in a similar fashion. The final game consisted of guessing the price of an item. Each contestant had a different item. Usually both items were within a few hundred dollars of each other. Whoever came closest without going over took home the prize. What was really interesting was that we saw bits and pieces of this show several times and the multiplicity of intermediate tests was fantastic. It also helped draw our attention because it also made it more difficult to figure out just what was going on in particular. And it provided a practical lesson in learning how to speak about large numbers in Italian. And the host was a Sophia Loren type. It was a riot to watch her make small talk with the contestants as she towered over them.

Planto was entirely different. At least I believe that was the name of the show since the word was emblazoned on the game pieces or tokens that the contestants were given. As I recall, Il Coppo Grosso was emblazoned on part of the stage set of the show so maybe that was its name. Anyway, there were only two contestants, one man and one woman. They started out with a certain amount of play money and would have to beat each other to answer questions in order to gain more money. But the object of the show apparently was to get your opponent's team to strip. Each contestant would choose from among a stable of beauties for their team. Apparently, when you were put at a disadvantage by the play and you team was required to remove some article of clothing, you had the option of stripping yourself and protecting your team. And naturally, before choosing your team, each of the girls did a little dance that ended with her "wares" in full view for you to appraise her value as a team member.

*****

Mom had composed a short list of things she was hoping to do while in Italy. One item on the list was to see the Appian Way, or Via Appia Antica. This is the Roman roadway that stretched from the walls of Roma south to the Adriatic port of Brindisi. Although our sedentary lifestyles of the recent past combined with a bit of jet lag induced fatigue we decided to walk across the ancient city one day and make sure Mom satisfied her longing. It turned out to be quite an adventure. Our hotel was situated near the northern limits of the old city which as I have mentioned was completely walled at one time. The Appian Way originates at the old walls of the south. So we set out one morning to walk across the old city.

On the way we stop at St. Peter in Chains, a nondescript church in the heart of the city except for a reliquary containing the chains that St. Peter is reputed to have been restrained by when he was brought to Roma and martyred. But something else also draws tourists to the church, namely Michelangelo's Moses. This marble carving is a wonderful piece of work, massive, resolute, stolid and heavy with the spirit of the fire and brimstone of the Old Testament but never weighed down in terms of expression and artistic intent. Moses' expression penetrates the musty darkness of his confines with a piercing intensity that belies the cold marble media. Here is the embodiment off controlled strength and purpose.

The statue stands to one side of the altar and the only restraint is a single low brass bar to keep the admirers a few feet away. We viewed the work in a lull between busloads of tourists and then left as two busloads spilled into the church, one Japanese and the other German.

Just before we got to the church we were accosted by several young girls, street urchins, if you will. They approached me first, holding pieces of poster board outstretched in front of them almost like a street musician would have a small blanket in front of him to throw coins on. I'll generally give money to street performers but I very rarely will give money to a beggar unless I can plainly see that they are handicapped. I passed by them and proceeded up the stairway towards the church. First mistake. They rightly see their real mark to be Ginny, small and unintimidating, and now clearly left Momentarily abandoned by her guileless and trusting man. They clustered around her in the space of a few seconds, completely surrounding her with their poster board. Ginny cries out my name and I turn quickly back and reach for her elbow under the poster board in order to guide her out of her predicament. That's when I realize the scam. The poster board is intended to cover the adroit handiwork of one of the girls as she opens Ginny's pocketbook and proceeds to rifle it. But there wasn't enough time before I have Ginny free and clear. Nothing is taken but both Ginny and Mom spend the rest of the vacation with handbags slung over one shoulder and clutched securely under the other arm. We nearly came to grief later in Firenze for a similar mistake, but that's another chapter in this story.

On and on we walk. Now we are on less than familiar streets and we refer to the Amex map as we plot a course towards the Roman city gates that mark the start of Via Appia. Down past the Coliseum and on we go, stopping at St. John in Lateran, with its massive bronze doors taken from the Roman Curia (Senate building) in the Forums. How many senators have stood in front of these doors over the centuries, albeit in another place, to discuss some last minute news or development before proceeding in to administer the empire? Perhaps even Julius Caesar once reached out for support from these very doors that we now touch inquisitively with outstretched palms, as he staggered dying from the dagger thrusts of his assassins.

On and on we walk, through an inner gate near the massive ruins of the baths of Caracalla. Frigido, Tepido, Caldo. Today shapes up a bit on the caldo side given that it has been unseasonably warm since we arrived. Now down a long cobbled road, lightly traveled, walls on both sides with occasional gates that afford glimpses of large estates and urban ornamental gardens in varying stages of splendor from well kept to nearly reclaimed by the wild. Here, finally is the old city triple arched gate. Through we go to Via Appia. There's the sign for it, we really found it all right. But not the Via Appia Mom envisioned. "These aren't the big cobbles from the pictures!" True enough, the entire road surface is modern 4" by 4" basalt stone pave. There is also a sign 'To the Catacombs' and I suggest we continue walking until we encounter the larger, ancient Roman pave that Mom wants so much to see.

On and on we walk. Other tourists are taking the same path and we draw encouragement from their presence. But still no large pave. Here's some road maintenance and excavation. Off to the side are some large paving stones but we'll not settle for that now. We want to walk on the real Appian Way. On and on we go. Here the road forks. Catacombs ahead either way. We stay to the left, keeping to the bogus Appian Way. Now we've reached the first of two catacomb complexes open to the public. In we go to discover that they are closed during lunchtime. I try a Coke machine and lose a couple of 500 lira coins I've been collecting for mementos once back home. No coke is forthcoming and I give up as the machine has no price displayed and I don't want to lose any more change. We decide after a drink of water from a fountain to push down the Appian Way and find a place to eat.

Here is the entrance to the second catacomb complex, closed today. And here also is a motorized fast food setup. We are discussing what to get when we notice a sign for 'Ristorante Cecilia Metella'. Just up the road. Off we go and in short order we are seated at one of many tables under an immense grape arbor. Sweet, cool shade massages us as we enjoy glasses of vino, acqua minerale (no gas), hearty chunks of crusty Italian bread, insulata pomodor and pasta. Mom loves the table lines in two colors with a design of Cecilia Metella's tomb and the restaurant's name. The tomb is one of many along the Appian Way and is perhaps a ten minute walk up the road. I have almost steeled myself to pilfer a napkin for Mom but she asks the waiter if she might not take the menu as a Momento. But, of course! He brings a clean menu for her and she busies herself with copying in the current prices of all the items. Next to us, two fellows sit down and proceed to order what amounts to a full luncheon including salad, pasta, fish and dolce (sweets or dessert). Fish, in Italy at least, is always cooked whole and brought to the table to be prepared by the waiter. He will basically fillet the fish using a couple of spoons, removing the backbone and bones of the ribs and cutting away the tail and head. The fish is then placed on the serving dish with quarters of a thick skinned and apparently seedless lemon. A bit of Italian parsley as garnish and here is a feast first for your eyes and then your tastebuds. I love to watch the waiters as they prepare the fish but have yet to order fish myself. Later in the trip I will finally try fish Italian style, with mixed although amusing results.

Back to the catacombs. I work hard at consoling Mom about not getting to the real Appian Way but she is still determined and wonders if we can't hire a taxi to take us farther out. Perhaps next trip Mom. The catacombs are long winding passages on several levels that were carved over the years into the Tufa limestone that abounds in this area. Tufa is rather soft and relatively easy to work but once exposed to air it hardens up. All in all a very plastic material suitable for the purposes of the catacombs. In ancient Roma you were prohibited from burying your dead within the confines of the city. I am unsure of the non Christian practices of the day but I believe they immolated their dead and that tombs such as Cecilia Metella's were principally memorials. At any rate, the Christians buried their dead and some of the well to do Christian landowners allowed the use of their property outside the city walls by less fortunate fellow believers. The catacombs we entered (you wait for a guide as unescorted entry is prohibited) had seven levels and miles of passageway. We went down only to the third level and trooped about to small 'grottos' where we could assemble together and listen to the guide. If you aren't afflicted with claustrophobia I recommend the experience at least once. Back at the surface again and Mom is still determined. She buttonholes the guide and explains what she is looking for. He says that there is a small patch of old pave about 15 minutes walk up the road. Off we go again.

On and on we walk. Past the Cecilia Metella tomb, which looms like some large misplaced Norman castle keep guarding the roadway. It's now well into rush hour and the road is filled with vehicles. There is a bit of shoulder here and there as we walk along but some stretches feature walls butting directly up to the asphalt. Here we wait our chance for a break in the traffic and run quickly on. Finally, we reach our goal, a 3 way intersection with perhaps a 20 by 20 foot patch of real old time genuine Appian Way, right out of the postcards, hexagonal basalt pave. Now we need the proof and Mom casually walks into the middle of the lane and poses for pictures which Ginny and I quickly snap as we all laugh and wonder aloud about what the natives think of all this.

Back to the tomb which we briefly explore. The inside is hollow and vaulted in the shape of a straw beekeep. It seems scoured clean by the passage of time except for the pigeons which now use it as their roost and the brainless tourists who can't be bothered to carry their trash a few feet to the can outside.

No, we didn't walk back to the hotel. There is a public bus stop at the tomb and we relax and enjoy the wait. Across the way there is a public fountain consisting of a small diameter brass or bronze pipe sticking out of the ground and curved over like a faucet at the top. Water runs continuously out of it and there is a small hole drilled in the pipe at the top of the bend. I soon discover how to use it after watching a number of motorists pull over for a roadside drink. Across the road I go and with my thumb I partially block the opening of the pipe. The pressure now forces the water out of the smaller opening in a graceful arc and I drink my fill. Later in the week on the Palatine Hill we encounter a similar fountain and watch as several young boys discovered how to use the fountain as a 'water pistol' by waiting for their friends to walk into the line of fire and then suddenly blocking the regular outlet completely.

A lone women also waits at the bus stop but despairs of seeing the bus and begins to walk back towards the catacombs. A fellow who stopped for a drink and then remained sitting in his car makes his move. Firing up his trusty steed he U-turns and overtakes her. No she doesn't want a ride thank you. Well perhaps he'll just follow along for awhile to be sure no one bothers her. On she goes. Again he pulls alongside. Are you sure you don't want a ride? She is sure and he signals his retreat with another U-turn as he takes up the commute home again. Finally, the bus arrives. We board, and even though no one is there to check tickets we have them and validate them on the little meter at the back of the bus. It gets crowded with the stop at the catacombs and Ginny and I do what the Romans do, or at least what the young ones in love do, as she sits in my lap for the ride back.

**********

On to Firenze, the city of flowers and the blooming of the Renaissance. The trip from Roma to Firenze is by bus and will take the better part of a Saturday morning. Our Amex agent in Rome, Alberto, ensures that all our luggage is accounted for and loaded and off we go. Alberto accompanies us to act as tour guide through the countryside and to check our airline tickets for the return flight home. This is done in order to ensure that any mistakes or special considerations with the return flights are caught in time to be corrected or taken into consideration. Very reassuring.

The countryside is strikingly pastoral. We sweep by vast fields being cultivated by hand; small clusters of stucco houses with the ubiquitous dull red terracotta roofing tiles, pigsties and sheep pens, a few fruit trees, laundry drying in the open air, and always a row or two of vines to provide the family wine. Here and there, we drift by a small village or town, perched like a faded yellow and red mass of seaweed on the rocky outcrops that rise out of the valley plain we ride upon. Yellows, reds and greens predominate but especially the yellows from the stucco buildings and even more so from the fields of ripening hay soon to be harvested for winter fodder for the farm animals. The red of the roof tiles is mirrored and intensified in splashy patches of wild poppies that grow like weeds in the fields.

Now we are in the Appenines, the geographic backbone of the Italian peninsula. I am reminded of similar mountains back in the States, the Blue Ridge section of the Appalachians and the Green mountains in Vermont. The highway we are on, A1, is commonly known as the Autostrada Del Sole, or Highway of the Sun because it stretches the length of Italy and leads the northern Italians from their alpine homes down to the Mediterranean climes of Naples and points further south. But today in the mountains the sun hasn't reached its zenith yet and we feel a faint hint of the mist and wetness that must engulf these hills in all but the most summery of days.

Our driver, like every other Italian bus driver I have seen is a thorough pro behind the wheel, calm and unruffled in every situation. He has the speedometer pegged at 90 KPH and eases the bus gently through the small knots of traffic that we come upon. It is now that I realize that Italy has, I believe for the first time ever, a speed limit. And drivers here observe the limit. During the entire trip I can recall only one car speeding by us, and as the driver overtook us our driver actually made the effort of signalling him by hand to slow down! Two or three times we must slow to pass road crews working on the highway. Unlike the States, where a driver might expect to see a sign signalling an abrupt change in the limit, in Italy drivers are confronted with a graduated series of limits. So as we approach each work area I watch the signs flash by; 80, 70, 60, 50, 40, and catch myself wondering if a final "Burma Shave" sign won't hove into view as we reach the work site.

Finally, we enter Firenze. First stop is at the Hotel Plaza Lucchesi. This is the first class hotel and it fronts on the river Arno about a quarter mile above the Ponte Vecchio. Next, we drive around the perimeter of the old city to reach our hotel, just a few blocks from the Duomo, or cathedral, at the very center of the city. Most of the wall of the ancient city was demolished to construct the road we take. Now we are at our hotel and immediately there is a problem. But we are seasoned tourists and endeavor to make it someone else's problem and succeed almost too well. Our Firenze Amex agent informs us that the hotel's single rooms are overbooked and therefore the three single ladies in our group will kindly go to the first class hotel and receive free upgrades to single rooms there. Immediate consternation. Mom certainly isn't going to stay in another hotel and be separated from us. Another of the ladies has been "adopted" by two other couples and refuses to be separated from them. The third lady doesn't want to go to a hotel further from the center of the city. Our newly acquired hostess does not speak English all that well and also cannot seem to understand why in the world no one would want the free upgrade. Worst yet, Alberto is forced to leave as he has no local authority to resolve the matter and he must accompany the bus back to Roma. Someone suggests that as American Express goofed by not assuring everyone rooms they paid for, they should upgrade everyone in the affected parties or simply place the ladies in double rooms at this hotel. I remain quiet as I see the group acting in unison in demanding a reasonable resolution to the problem and there are several older and much more vociferous defenders of our rights already deep in the fray. Eventually another Amex agent shows up. She speaks better English and appears more experienced in the job. The logjam begins to clear. The single lady who wants to stay close to the center of the city proposes that if a suitable room can be found for Ginny and I at the Plaza Lucchesi, then she and our Mom will take singles at the Plaza and the room at this hotel that we would have had would be given to the third single woman. We are agreeable since it means an upgrade for the three of us. But I keep insisting that we be given a double room at the Plaza since we don't relish trying to sleep in a single bed for the better part of a week. Phone calls to the other hotel and long discussions. It looks like the deal isn't going to happen until the agent comes to me and asks if we are willing to take a single room and have an additional bed moved into it. Ah, how easy it is to misunderstand someone else. Of course, we will be happy to do that. What we were insisting upon all along was a double room in the sense of the size of the bed or beds! So, off we go to the Plaza Lucchesi. Mom ends up with a single room almost twice the size of her room in Roma and with a lovely view of the river while Ginny and I end up in a "single" on the top floor, also overlooking the river and with a walkout balcony. The single gal who proposed the deal would later complain about her room, but Mom saw it and told us it was just as large and nice as hers. And so it goes.

We are in our rooms only long enough to see that the luggage is secure and then off we go to retrace steps taken five years ago. Down along the Arno till we come abreast the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge). Most of its famous shops are closed now as early afternoon finds everyone taking lunch. We walk in towards the center of the city. The street is closed to vehicles but nonetheless suffers from a form of gridlock as tourists sidestep the outspread blankets of black street merchants featuring cheap bags and sunglasses in order to window shop. A side street offers a glimpse of the Piazza Signoria and we head that way. Here are a couple of restaurants that spill tables out into the cool shade of the southern end of the piazza and we take a late lunch and watch the crowd drift by. We all have become enamored of insulata pomodoro, a salad consisting of sectioned tomatoes served in olive oil and vinegar. I also have my favorite, Tortellini "alla panna" (cream sauce).

After lunch, because we are already there and also as the tour tomorrow will not include it, we walk through the Uffizi. The Uffizi was originally built to house the public offices of Florence during the time of Cosimo I (mid 16th century) of the Medici family that dominated Renaissance Florence. By the late 1500s, the building was already housing some of the works of art that today rank it among the very most important museums in the world. My favorites include Botticelli's mysterious and evocative "Birth of Venus" and "Allegory of Spring"; DaVinci's "Annunciation" and "Adoration of The Magi"; Michelangelo's "Dondi Tondo" (a composition of the Holy Family); Durer's "Calvary"; as well as a room full of works by Raphael. Every major painter from Giotto (c. 1300) through Rembrandt (c. 1650) is represented.

We leave the Uffizi and forge deeper into the heart of the city ending up in the Piazza San Giovanni that fronts on the Duomo (cathedral). Of all the varied and unique structures in Firenze, from the urban fortress palazzos of the Florentine Renaissance elite to the Ponte Vecchio with its gold merchants' shops clinging precariously to its flanks, the triad of the cathedral, bell tower and baptistry is without doubt the most memorable sight. To my mind these buildings also form the most remarkable and harmonious architectural group I have ever seen. The baptistry features three great pairs of bronze doors, including two sets by Ghiberti, the later of which was proclaimed by none other a critic than Michelangelo as fit to be the "Gate of Paradise". These last doors face the cathedral and despite being in afternoon shadow, seem hardly to require any light to work their magic. Not recently cleaned, the gilding nevertheless shines brightly just where we expect a highlight against the weather dulled background. Epic tales these ten panels tell. Adam and Eve; Cain and Abel; Noah; Abraham; Jacob and Esau; Joseph; Moses; Joshua; Saul and David; Solomon. And one other epic tale as well, that of the artist and the 27 years he worked on these panels. Here, in between the panels, he has added a small self portrait, his bust, so that he might cast a bemused eye on the hordes of people who gather in front of his masterwork. We turn our gaze to the great cathedral that looms over us blocking the view of the great dome over the apse. Look how the afternoon sun warms off the bright facade of white and green and pink marbles then spills down and breaks in happy waves on hundreds of faces filled with wonderment. To the right is Giotto's bell tower, featuring the same marbles as the baptistry and cathedral. Up it powers into the soft blue of the sky. Ginny and I climbed to its pinnacle our last trip and agreed that one time was enough. I know that if Mom wants to do it that we will climb it once again. But not this day. It is getting towards dinner time and we have a special restaurant in mind, El Propheta.

El Propheta has special memories for Ginny and me. We ate there twice on our first trip and were enchanted by it. Perhaps it was the maitre 'd walking away from our table singing "gassa, no gas" after we ordered "acqua mineral no gas" one evening. Certainly, everyone working there seemed to take a certain delight in their work. This also is the restaurant where I completely overdid one meal, ordering everything from soup to nuts and a second mezzo liter of wine. That evening I waddled like a penguin on a leash as Ginny took me back to the hotel (with one excruciating detour into a pastry shop). Tonight, we are more restrained. Mom tries the Manicotti and Ginny and I each have veal and sweet peas. The girls have strawberries and cream for dessert while I have the great good fortune to take the waiter's recommendation and let my taste buds explode around a dish of custard and caramel. After we order, Mom asks the waiter if he can tell us where to find the 'good' green olive oil that we know is one of the major products of Tuscany and not easily to be found back in the States. The easy charm and willingness to help hasn't deserted El Propheta as the waiter absconds with Ginny for a few minutes to walk her to the corner of the block and point out a store where we can buy all the olive oil we want. After dinner we follow his directions and find ourselves in a small Mom and pop store complete with standup bar well attended by the local working crowd. We seem to present a bit of an occasion for everyone there and after purchasing 5 one liter bottles of oil (7,900 lira each - about $5.50) we watch as the proprietress turns a couple of old cardboard boxes into carrying cases for us. She seems to enjoy swathing the boxes in tape and also fashions handles with it to ease the job of lugging them home.

Our half day tour is scheduled for Sunday, our first full day in Firenze. As all of the state run museums are closed on Mondays and these orientation tours are arranged early in a group's stay in each city, we found ourselves busy at work as tourists early the next morning. Onto the bus, where we report to the rest of the group about the rooms and terrific continental breakfast we have just finished in the restaurant adjoining the hotel lobby. These continental breakfasts vary tremendously from hotel to hotel and this morning we were treated not only to coffee, tea and rolls, but also all we could eat from a buffet featuring cereals, fruit, fresh juices and even scrambled eggs with bacon and sausage. Next time, I do believe we will consider first class accommodations all the way!

Our tour takes us first to Palazzo Pitti, named for its original owner. It was purchased by the Medici when the Pitti family fell on hard times and now houses much of the art that the Medici collected over the years. The palazzo is on the other side of the Arno and Cosimo I commissioned Vasari (author of "Lives of the Artists") to design an elevated walkway from the palazzo to the Uffizi. This Vasari Corridor is over a kilometer long and now houses a famous collection of self portraits. Unfortunately, entry to the corridor is by special group only and we have not arranged to tour it this time. Just as in the Uffizi, the Pitti overwhelms you with the richness, variety and complexity of the artwork. Much of it is from the Baroque and Rococo periods, neither of which I have yet acquired a taste for. There was however, one sensational table in the Florentine mosaic style featuring floral arrangements of inlaid precious stones that I might have spent the whole of our time admiring. But time flies and we are back on the bus in short order. We had no chance to walk the Boboli Gardens behind the palazzo and we add that to a growing list of places to visit sometime during the rest of our stay.

Now back into the city we go to the Academia, the home of The David. The David dominates the museum and everyone's attention but my favorites here are four unfinished works known as The Captives. These were begun by Michelangelo to adorn the tomb of one of the Medici but were not completed. Now they are imprisoned forever, but neither understand nor accept their fate, continuing to struggle against the cold and heavy grip of the chalky white marble. Here also, in the long gallery leading to The David, is another of the pietas as well as Michelangelo's study of St. Matthew.

Next, The David. What can I convey, with my meager words, of the immensity of the task Michelangelo set himself to when he took such a massive block of marble, considered ruined and unsuitable for any serious work by most of his day, and transformed it into such a glorious statement of the male form, vigilant for the approach of the enemy, confident in skill and strength, awaiting calmly the Moment when his mastery would be made evident. Michelangelo, I am sure, struck just such a pose in his mind's eye as he laid chisel to that block of marble.

Back across the Arno to the Piazza Michelangelo on a hillside overlooking the city. This beautiful clear morning the piazza features a small sort of carnival that has attracted many of the locals and also reduced the amount of parking space so that our bus must idle in an aisle instead of parking while we take a quick walk about. We are given only a few minutes and I spend most of that time feeling a bit harried as I try to change film in my camera. Another place added to our "must come back" list!

Our final stop takes us back across the river once again to Santa Croce, a major church in the city only a few blocks from our hotel. Here Michelangelo, Galileo and Rossini are laid to rest with other luminaries of Italian culture. Here also, Sunday mass is just concluding and I am astonished that the church is open to tour groups while services are held. Santa Croce happens to be in a low spot in the city. In '66 during problems with a dam in the mountains east of Firenze, the Arno overflowed its banks and caused tremendous damage to much of the art of Firenze. The water inundated the piazza in front of Santa Croce to a depth of 23 feet and even in the church you can still plainly see the stain the water left well above a man's reach on the walls. In the piazza around the Duomo, much further from the banks of the Arno, there is a marker recording the water depth from the flood. Later in the week, we will have our pictures taken standing under the marker.

Most of these tours end at a shop featuring one of the local industries of the city you are in. In Firenze, it is usually leather or sometimes mosaics. This trip it is leather but we want to see the mosaics which are unique to Firenze. We eventually locate a mosaic shop and I feel like a little boy set loose in a candy store. These mosaics, as I have said, are truly unique. Generally a slab of jet black slate is used as a "frame". The design is then constructed from various stones selected for their color and grain. These stones are cut to size and carefully worked to fit flush against each other and also flush to the surface of the slate. The work is so exacting that it is often difficult to detect where one stone ends and another begins. I finally decide which piece I would like. It is a small table of perhaps 2 feet in diameter with a central flower motif perhaps 6 to 8 inches in diameter. No problem, only 14 million lira, and it's mine! In the back of the shop, we are shown a masterwork in progress, a full size reproduction of a painting that appears to be about 4 feet by 6 feet. They may still be working on this one the next time we visit. I wonder who has commissioned it and what the price tag will ultimately be.

*****

Our tour finished, we walk across the piazza in front of Santa Croce to one of the many side streets to a restaurant (Leo) recommended by our tour guide. The restaurant is booked for a special occasion and so we add another item to our must come back list. Eventually we end up in the Piazza Signoria where we had lunch yesterday and discuss our plans for the remainder of the day over insulata pomodoro and tortellini. Undecided, we leave the restaurant and window shop until we reach the Duomo. What do you think Mom, shall we climb the bell tower? One of the best views of the city, you know. Mom is game and into the tower we go. Except for the churches, most every public building requires an entrance ticket. Prices range from 2000 to 5000 lira (roughly $1.50 to $3.50 U.S.). As I buy tickets a group of children on an outing storm into the base of the tower. Aye!yi!yi!yi!yi! Let's let them go first so they don't trample us on the way up. Now we start up. No elevators here, you have to earn the view the hard way and we take the first of about 450 steps on our climb to the top. Construction of the tower was begun under the direction of Giotto around 1330. The entire tower is to his original design but does not include a spire he envisioned for it. The floor plan is square with a massive pier at each corner. These piers made it possible to treat the intervening walls in a manner known as screen walls. Because a screen wall does not support the weight of the building above it, it can be pierced by arches (that actually divert the thrust of the weight to the piers). The Gothic cathedrals of the 12th and 13th centuries are the best known examples of screen wall technique. In those cathedrals the screen walls were made possible by 'flying' buttresses and were filled with the stained glass windows that are a characteristic of the Gothic style. Back to the bell tower. The screen walls have been left open at several levels. These levels have floors supported by great domed vaults. As you climb, the levels provide resting places and intermediate views. Here also are displayed some of the bells that originally sang from the tower. The steps are over 600 years old and the footfalls of centuries have honed gentle half moon curves into them. As they are very narrow and serve up and down traffic it is impossible to run so there is not much danger of a slip and fall. Long diagonals take the climbers from one pier to another where the screen walls permit while squared 'circular' staircases inside a pier allow you to continue your ascent to the next level past openings in the screen walls. As ascending and descending people meet it is often only possible to pass each other by sliding by slowly with backs flat to the wall. While on the stairs the only natural light is from an occasional rectangular slit in the wall. Bare light bulbs provide the rest of the light necessary to see and as I climb I think of what the effect must have been before electricity was brought in. Were the long dark spiralling passages in the piers that lead to the brilliant light and airiness of the landings intentional? Did Giotto envision a journey to the summit of his bell tower as a metaphor for the soul's journey from the darkness and claustrophobia of sin and ignorance into the light and freedom of grace and knowledge?

We rest at each landing on the natural seats supplied by the flanges of stone jutting out of the piers. Already, we are high above everything else in the city except for the cathedral itself whose dome is slightly higher than the bell tower. People spew down out of the stairway remaining for us to climb and hurry on in their downward journey. So easy to descend. We watch as others half stumble out of the stairwell we have just left. Some are practically gasping from the effort. Still others have difficulty with the psychological aspects of the task. The walls seem almost to push in on your shoulders and squeeze the courage from you. Here, in the daylight is a chance to regain not only the physical strength necessary to the climb but also the mental resolve. A couple sit and smoke cigarettes as they relax. Can they really be going to the top? More power to them, I think, if they can abuse themselves that way and still manage this kind of climb.

Back into the pier and upwards again. We near the top, a small roofed room with a final half dozen steps that lead up and out to the walkway that provides views in all directions. I'm starting to become frightened. Heights have always done this to me. A tickling sensation deep inside me centered in my joints and stomach as my mind starts calling for more and more adrenalin to be dumped into my system. We're in the room at the top and as I start up the final steps to the walkway my backbone is in the clutches of kneading fingers of icy fear imploring me to turn back. I won't. The walkway is perhaps four feet wide with a marble balustrade all around perhaps four feet high. At the corners the walk flares out into a large square. It takes a conscious and very determined effort to step close enough to touch the balustrade but I do it deliberately to spite my misgivings and to assert my mastery of will over an old and cunning personal enemy.

The view is spectacular. All of Florence lies before us. Nearest us is the bulk of the cathedral's dome with its red tiles that seem to spill down onto every other building in the city. People are in the cupola of the dome looking towards us as we look to them. Maybe some day we will skip the bell tower and spend our allotment of verve in climbing the dome. Definitely another trip. Now we turn to the south and take in the Palazzo Signoria with its narrow tower thrusting like a lance into the sky. To the west is the sun and a sea of red tile. Now to the north and the hilltop town of Fiesole lurking in the hazy warmth of the day. Back to the east and off into the distance past the cathedral. There is Santa Croce and also the Synagogue. Further still into the soft greens that carry our eyes up into the mountains that feed the Arno.

I joke with Ginny and Mom as we leave the tower about my constant vision of being in a tall building and having it collapse under me. I tell them that I never worry about being in the same building and having it collapse on me. My fear will never be conquered, it's as much a part of me as any other thought or feeling I've ever had. But I'll keep wrassling with it.

*****

Ponte Vecchio is another of Firenze's many magnets of activity. The name means, quite simply, Old Bridge, and it is indeed ancient. So respected is it that when the Allies were pushing the Germans up and out of Italy they bombed every other bridge over the Arno but left Ponte Vecchio untouched. As I stand on Ponte Vecchio I recall pictures from a war year's issue of National Geographic accompanying an article describing the difficulty of undertaking such a bombing raid with targets less than one quarter mile from not only Ponte Vecchio but also many other major historical structures.

Ponte Vecchio is home to the gold and precious stone industry of Firenze and on any given day there certainly must be more than a million dollars of gold, pearls, coral and lapis displayed in the shops on the bridge. Swarming with shoppers during the day, the bridge settles into a gentler pace in the evenings as the shops close and students and young tourists congregate to make music, converse, and enjoy a leisurely and sedentary form of cruising. Ginny and Mom have been looking forward to Ponte Vecchio and now the serious shopping begins. Ginny has been thinking about a gold watch for months and she has me, her shopping good luck charm, with her so there can be no question about finding just what she wants. But nobody seems to display just what she wants. This face is too large, that band too wide, this face squared, that band in silver and gold.

Frustration is setting in but then a glimmer of hope. Here is a store with several watches that appear nearer to what Ginny wants. In we go and Ginny ends up trying on several watches. One has the band she wants and another has a petite face. Combining the one band with the other face would require a special order but can be done. Ginny demurs as an order she must wait on should only be for something exactly as she would want it and she is a bit lukewarm on the watch face. By the way, she asks, as the watch goes back into the display case, "what would be the price if I ordered it"? I have seen the small tag with all of the zeros on it and my head starts to swim a bit as I try some quick estimates. $4500? Unless I added a few zeros that's got to be in the ballpark especially considering that this isn't a shop you just walk into (we had to ring a bell and then were admitted by the attendant). I look over to Mom and I can see she expects the same bad news I have just figured out on my own. But not quite as bad as I thought as the shopkeeper finishes up with her calculator and calmly intones $4062 US. Ah, just a tad more than we wished to spend, dear lady, but thank you ever so much anyway!

The next morning, undaunted, we are back on the Ponte Vecchio. No, we simply haven't missed any of the watches available. Nothing is quite right and what is close in style fails miserably in price. Mom finally decides on a gold necklace and I attempt to console Ginny with a pair of lapis stud earrings to compliment the sets of diamond, jade, and pearl studs I have gotten her in the past.

*****

Monday in Firenze sees all of the state run museums closed and that afternoon we decide to take the bus up into the hills north of the city to the town of Fiesole. Transportation turns out to be simpler than you might expect. We buy tickets (600 lira one way for each of us comes to a total of $2.50 US for three round trip tickets) at one of the many "Mom and pop" shops that always seem to have them for sale along with postage stamps. The trick is to know what exactly you need to buy since these shopkeepers generally don't speak English and there are several types of tickets available.

We walk to the Hotel Fenise Palace (where we would originally have stayed) and await the number 7 bus. Standing room only awaits us as we board but eventually seats open as we near the outskirts of the city and Ginny and Mom get to sit as we begin the ride into the hills. The roadway steepens and with each switchback I think more and more what a fabulous route for a bicycle race to take, either ascending or descending. Wherever I turn my gaze I find the same views: small secluded estates, farms with fields of maturing hay and groves of gnarled olive trees. Unpretentious in form and hue, I realize with a start how appropriate the phrase "olive" drab is, given the effect these trees have on me.

We reach the small piazza that marks the center of Fiesole and consult our Michelin green book and form a plan of action. The piazza lies in a saddle in the hills and we decide to head west up a steep cobbled street that leads to a church, a monastery, and the best view. The view comes first. A broad terrace has been constructed on the hillside, facing south towards Firenze from which we can sweep our gaze across the entire city now muted by the haze of the sunny afternoon.

Next, we ascend broad steps to the very summit of the hill and the Franciscan monastery. The church is small and has that cool quiet darkness that is so typical of older churches. In retrospect I wonder if the atmosphere isn't deliberate and perhaps even a subconscious echo of the same feelings that took the people of the last ice age deep into caves to perform their ritual magic. There is no noise except for the tourists. To one side there is a small cloister as well as a museum. Apparently, one of the friars who called this place home in the late nineteenth century was interested in archeology and anthropology and accumulated enough artifacts to fill several rooms. The objects on display are mostly from the South Seas and China and show the lack of care and attention that has been their lot since the collection lost its original curator. Back through the tiny cloister and I notice a wall cage containing several songbirds. Their music certainly adds to the meditative ambiance of the cloister but I wonder what Saint Francis would have to say to his followers who would cage birds.

Back to the piazza we go by another path that winds through the woods below the monastery. We are undecided about touring the archeological area just off the center of town and chose to wander down a side street that winds up taking us in a circuit of the ancient ruins of Roman temple, bath and theatre. More fine vistas greet our eyes to the north of town and we idle away more than a few minutes in a reverie thinking about just where we might locate our own villa someday.

We find ourselves back at the entrance to the archeological area and let the coincidence decide our actions as we buy tickets and enter. The theatre is of classic design and after being restored years ago has served again and again in its original role for the townspeople. I wander about as if to locate the best seats for the performance that workers are even now preparing the stage area and light towers for. Reaching the bottom, I see that Ginny and Mom have also been selecting seats, but more in mind of the view into the distant hills and for the clear strong sunlight that washes over them as they relax. Then, we are all together again, exiting the theatre via a ground level archway, and pushing further into the ruins.

A large "wall" of living hedge provides a backdrop to the stage and we pass through an opening in it to find several olive trees. Next we come across the ruins of the baths, of which enough remains to see how the water was heated via large oven like fire pits and then piped under the bath's raised flooring, no doubt to soothe many a muscle aching from the strenuous life in this mountain town. Most of the construction of the baths is brick and further on we stand on the great blocks of natural stone that formed the temple and I'm curious as to whether the people's pride in their public buildings was strong enough to overcome the natural difficulties and expense of bringing marble to the site. Back at the theatre, we stop for one last Moment of contemplation and then start on our way out. But wait a Moment. Here on the left as we exit the top of the ampitheatre is a modern building. Let's see what it has to offer.

Ah, a museum that exhibits the many objects found in the area over the years of digging and construction. Everything about the place bespeaks the pride the modern inhabitants have for their little Fiesole. The display cases are of recent construction and spotless. It is near closing time and several people are busy cleaning the glass and sweeping the floor but no one rushes to shoo us on. We end up rushing ourselves but manage to take in the small bronzes and terracotta fragments that the Etruscans left as well as the wealth of detritus from the Roman era. As we leave the museum and archeological area all too quickly we know it will be near the top of our list of places to return to some day.

I weigh about 170 pounds and with a little bit steadier diet of pasta will soon outweigh both Ginny and her mother. One of the consequences of having two such women of girlish figure in my life is that if one isn't already hungry then the other is. So, as we leave the museum we decide to have dinner at one of the outdoor cafes on Fiesole's tiny square. We eat at a leisurely pace aided somewhat by service a bit slower than we have grown accustomed to, but with nowhere to hurry off to and no plans looming over us to hinder our enjoyment of the Moment.

Everything seems to have slowed to an amble, even the auto traffic that wanders by. Cars slow and even pause almost fishlike as if to slip into an eddy of slow water behind a rock in the current. Children pass through the square as though it were a park or playing field, the boys now stopping in a clump, oblivious to traffic as they argue, joke and push each other about, while the girls gather in their own little knot to trade secrets and other intimacies. Only the chimney swifts, giant versions of swallows, seem able to shake off the mood as they pirouette over the rooftops against a clear sky, diving and stunting in intricate curlicues in search of dinner on the wing. The spell finally breaks as the #7 bus stops across the square and we hurry to pay our cafe bill and board the bus for the return trip down the hill. We have been keeping an eye on the bus departures and know that the next #7 departure may be a good hour away.

Safely back in Firenze, we walk along the riverside back to our hotel and it is here that I almost come to grief. I've abandoned the camera bag as too heavy and bulky and have been carrying my camera alone for some days now. As my shoulder has grown tired of the camera's weight I have started carrying the camera in my hand, usually grasping it in the most convenient manner, which is to hold onto it by the zoom lens. We are on the sidewalk with our backs to the traffic when I feel a tug on the camera. A thief on motorcycle has been patrolling the concourse looking for a suitable victim, and seeing me and the exposed camera, has struck. Gliding up behind me he tries to yank the camera away before I can react. But, fortune is on my side this evening. To prevent the camera from slipping out of my tired grasp, I've wrapped the carrying strap around my hand a couple of times. The thief, unable to take the camera and be off in the second before I realize what is happening, gives up quickly and flashes off down the street. That is the last time on the trip that the camera strap isn't looped tightly around whichever of my wrists happens to be away from the street.

*****

Our last full day in Firenze begins as the others with another excellent continental breakfast in the elegant dining rooms of the Plaza Lucchesi. With the museums opened again we decided to do a bit of shopping on the way to the Opera del Duomo (the museum of the works of the cathedral) and then gather in the works of Michelangelo at the Academy one final time.

We arrived at the Opera museum just off the Plaza Duomo. The building itself dates back to the time of the construction of the cathedral and for years housed the office of those charged first with the construction of the cathedral and then with its continued maintenance. Housed here are many artifacts found when the church on the site of the cathedral was razed as well as other objects of art no longer in the cathedral itself.

One room features only the two original choirs of the great building. They are displayed as though still in situ, skyboxes if you will, featuring marble reliefs, and clinging to the walls on either side of the room. Another room features several of the stone carvings of Donatello, somber dark blocks of stone, Apostles and Old Testament figures, that once stood in the niches of the church's facade. Here, they repose without fear of pigeons or weather.

Another room has walls filled with the bas reliefs, once again originals, that once adorned Giotto's bell tower. One set is hexagonal in design while the other is diamond shaped. The first pair, featuring Adam and Eve and Cain and Able, is attributed to Giotto, while the remainder were carved by Andrea Pisano, when he took up Giotto's labor. Many occupations and avocations are illustrated and I busy myself with pictures. Here is Jabal, the father of music, blowing lustily on a horn. T. will appreciate this. Now a blacksmith, and over here a vibrant scene of a farmer behind a plow urging on his oxen. Here is an astronomer sighting the stars along a ruler. Finally, Orpheus, playing the lyre and singing to the wild birds and animals. Definitely want a picture of this for Feneon.

Another room contains models of the facade of the cathedral. There are a number of these, created as entries in the competition to choose a new facade for the cathedral during the 16th or 17th century. Also, in this room are four panels from the Gates of Paradise, restored and at least temporarily on display here. Here also are hymnals (whose pages matched in size an open newspaper), laid open to show the beauty and painstaking detail of the manuscript illustrators. Most of these manuscripts were terribly damaged during the flood of '66 and some are still undergoing restoration. At the far end of the room is an altar of solid silver, a composite work of many artists and artisans, who each were given the task of producing a panel in the biblical story it illustrates.

A final, ground floor room contains Brunelleschi's working models for the design of the dome of the cathedral; actually a dome within a dome, and entirely constructed without the aid of ground anchored temporary strutworks as was the norm in arch and dome construction in those days. Also featured were some of the construction equipment. Huge wooden pulleys; windlasses that must have been manned by several workers at a time to haul up the mortar and brick; wheelbarrow like carts to ride the outside of the dome and take materials to their final destination after they reached the base of the dome.

The museum contains so much, and by so many prominent artists, that here even Michelangelo is not afforded his normal place of prominence. On the landing between the first and second floors of the museum is the third of his four pietas that we will encounter on this trip. This one is known as the Nicodemus Pieta because that is the saint supporting (along with two other figures) Christ's body. Michelangelo carved this composition from an ancient Roman marble capital that he was given. The stone was uniquely unsuitable for the type of work he wanted to do, being brittle as well as full of veins, and the stone continually frustrated him. Vasari mentions how he saw the artist working on the piece one evening and smashing part of it in disgust and futility. The figure of Christ is missing one leg and this may have been the very damage Vasari witnessed. Michelangelo intended the work to be his grave monument and portrayed himself in the face of Nicodemus. I had not seen this work during our previous visit to Firenze but it immediately struck me as one of Michelangelo's best works, as incomplete as it is and despite the intransigence the material held for his chisel.

Off now to the Academy for our last look at the David. Well, that was our intention, as I turn up the wrong street and become so completely lost that we end up in another quarter of the town entirely. We regain the Duomo but it is too late to start over for the Academy before it closes for the day. Where to now? We decide that lunch is in order and reprovision for the remainder of the day at the Restaurant on the Piazza Signoria where we had lunch our first day in Firenze. Now we head for the Medici Chapel, where the most prominent of that family are buried in tombs adorned with works of Michelangelo. The chapel also features several exquisite Florentine mosaics that should not be missed. Here again we are frustrated, turned back by large foreboding doors and plaques that announce the chapel's closure for the rest of the day.

Back to the Duomo we wander. Now we are captive to our inability to make a decision. I start offering suggestions. We can climb the Duomo. We can tour the Boboli Gardens. Mom says "fine, whatever you want to do." "But what do you want to do?" "If you climb the Duomo, I'll do it. Don't stop on account of me." "How about you, Ginny?" "If Mom wants to climb the Duomo, I'll go." Somehow, without any of the three of us expressing a strong interest in the climb we end up on the line of people waiting to pay the entrance fee at the base of one of the great piers supporting the dome.

In we go. And up and up. No windows or open air landings now and we relax as we climb. The stairs are wider as well. Eventually we reach a landing in a small room where we rest for a Moment or two. As we start out again the passage narrows and then we reach a door. I'm first and I see we have reached the top of the walls of the cathedral where the piers end and the dome begins. We are about 150 feet above floor level and I'm looking out into the immense open space enclosed by the dome itself. This must be the way, there haven't been any alternate paths so far.

Through the doorway I go and I am standing on a ledge perhaps a meter wide that circumambulates the base of the dome. There is a plexiglass partition, about waist high, that is all that separates the pilgrim from a short, fast and entirely fatal route leading to a more intimate encounter with his God. Well, there is no way out except ahead since the stairway we have come up is indeed one way this time. About a third of the way around the dome lies another doorway that leads to the stairway in the dome itself. Still further around lies another doorway, apparently leading back to the ground level.

I have stopped to take in all of this immense space and to gauge the potential danger ahead. I know everything is fine as long as I can manage the short walk to the next door. A word over my shoulder to Ginny and Mom to let them know what's ahead and off I go. I negotiate the ledge albeit a bit tremulous in the knees during the entire half minute or so as I walk feeling so exposed to all kinds of incredible and even impossible freak accidents. I see headlines in the National Enquirer screaming about the second honeymooners who fell from their lofty vantage point and are impaled on ancient oaken pews and monstrous brass candlesticks and LIVE TO TELL ABOUT IT! I envision more somber headlines as well, in more respectable papers, about the same couple who don't live to tell about it.

Finally, we regain the imagined safety of the close passageway, now formed of the brick that the entire dome is constructed of. The passageway rises sharply as we climb step after step then levels flat as we zigzag up the side of the dome. I feel at Moments as though we are on a fantastic voyage through the interior passageways of a convection fired brick oven. Finally, we come to a section of steps leading straight up. This is the section of stairway that will take us directly under the cupola of the dome. Thank God the brick is brick and not transparent. We are all standing over the center of the great building's huge circular apse. We're standing on what amounts to a bubble of brick, nearly 100 meters off the ground!

Mom and Ginny climb ahead as I ready the camera for the one interior picture I will take. Ginny pauses at the top of the stairs and points up to the small trapdoor leading into the open air of the cupola. Got it. Now up I go and lead the way up a small ladder back into the daylight. We walk around the cupola and take in the views. We look down slightly on the people in the bell tower but other than that it is the same vista everywhere we look except to the east, since in that direction we are now standing atop what had blocked our view from the bell tower.

The walkway of the cupola is slanted slightly outward and downward, apparently to allow rainwater to drain, but for us it has the unsettling effect of making us aware that we are high up and in a somewhat precarious position. A wire mesh fence serves as a guard rail and it looks flimsy enough that we don't get too near it. The dome is not circular but rather more pitched and we can easily look down at the rows upon rows of red tile. Have we climbed the back of some great red slumbering dragon? If so, let's tread lightly and not disturb his rest!

Eventually we succumb to the tiny voices inside us that plead for the ground and safety. The trip down is uneventful except for a minor repeat of the uneasiness as we negotiate the interior ledge. But it is the only way down and we just do it. I even manage to stop long enough to take a picture of one of the stained glass windows from this rather different vantage point. Once again on the ground we feel a few drops of rain and decide to forego the Boboli Gardens, at least for this trip. All that remains of Firenze for us now is a final dinner at El Propheta later that evening and one more deliciously relaxing nighttime stroll along the Arno.

*****

It is easy to love Venezia. And also to hate it. And both emotions can run strong and concurrent in a person. With us, the emotions tend to ply the watercourse of grudging dislike. Perhaps it is the poor odds of enjoying warm and sunny days on this "island" in the northern Adriatic during late May. Perhaps it is the sense of dampness, when it isn't raining outright, that pervades our three day stay. Absolutely, it is due in part to the blatant feeding of the populace on the tourists. Prices are always higher on an island but Venezia has not been an island for years since a causeway was built to connect it with the mainland. Nowhere else in our tour have we been in an environment so totally driven by the tourist industry.

On the plus side is the fact that all movement about the island is by boat or foot. No cars, no motorbikes, not even bicycles. If you want to get somewhere you walk or you step into a gondola, a vaporetto, or a water taxi. The water transportation is all public and handled by professionals so there is little chance of mishap. Pedestrian hazards consist of nothing more than the fact that more people are about than the narrow alleyways can sometimes handle. An occasional porter or longshoreman with handtruck adds a dash of spice to the otherwise amicable foot travel in the city.

Another plus depends on whether, and how much, you appreciate seafood. The cuisine, which was anchored by pasta, veal and poultry in Roma and Firenze, takes a dramatic change to fish and other seafood delights here in Europe's traditional watery gateway to the East.

Combining both positive and negative is the focal point of any visit to Venice, the Piazza San Marco, or Saint Mark's Square. Here, on a sunny day, you can sit at an outdoor cafe and let the sun gently massage you as you laze about over a drink, listening to the sounds of the small bands (employed by several of the cafes) intermingle with the buzz and shuffle of the crowds; the sudden slapping of wings against air as pigeons compete for yet another lunch of corn provided by yet another wave of tourists; and the soft breezes that finally find room here in the square to unfold and even kick up a bit before dying in the labyrinth of narrow passageways that lead from and to.

Your eyes will be as busy as your ears as you relax at your table. Swifts careen above the domes and spires of San Marco against intense blue sky. If it is afternoon, the declining sun begins to strike deeply and directly into the alcoves on the facade of San Marco, firing the mosaics there into sparkling and shimmering kaleidoscopes of color that mirror the garments of the hundreds of people sitting, sauntering, sometimes scurrying about. Idyllic, certainly. Even opulent and perhaps extravagant as well. The bill for the drinks you have here will be enough to make you swallow little else but air for a second or two as you wonder whether the budget is completely bust for the remainder of your trip. Husband that beer carefully, it's probably going to cost about 10 dollars when all is said and done. But the memory is indeed worth it.

*****

As we arrive at the bus and car terminal at the end of the causeway we hardly have hopes of idling the afternoon at a cafe. The trip from Firenze has been made under lowering clouds and through occasional rain squalls and drops are falling lightly as we stand and await the motor launches that will take us to our hotels. Eventually we are packed sardine like into a launch and off we go. Ladies are given cabin seats and a couple of the men, including myself, end up sitting outside the cabin. The open air suits me.

Our destination, The Hotel Doge Orseleo e Cavaletto, turns out to be only a few yards from the Piazza San Marco. That turns out to be more of a boon than we at first imagine but as we start to settle in I worry about the noise from the square at night. Settling in is hardly the way to describe our first encounter with our hotel room. There is no shower curtain. The TV doesn't work. The light switches ( or maybe the lights themselves) have gone into a pout. The bed has seen better days and sags miserably as it has no box spring for support but rather a cheap wire mesh underframe. Mom reports from her room that her mattress is too short for the bed leaving a gap that her pillow falls down into. Ah, Venezia, Jewel of the Adriatic. Centuries old urbane and cosmopolitan center of culture! Thank goodness we will only have to endure a couple days of such exquisite beauty.

Mom is a bit under the weather and so Ginny and I reconnoiter on our own. We have in mind to relocate the shop of an artist named Mario Rocchi, who specializes in etchings of Venetian scenes, that we chanced across on our first visit. His work, with the characteristic soft blurring lines of the etching process, is well suited to the character of Venezia as the city plays out its ongoing embrace with the sea and the inevitable softening and slumping that the tides, salt air, mists and fogs work upon the ancient buildings.

Off we go, first over one of the plethora of small elegant stone bridges that cross the canals and so staple the city blocks of Venezia firmly to one another. A few steps take us to the Piazza San Marco and I take bearings before walking to the other end of the square. Then with Ginny's hand tightly in mine we plunge into the maze of alleyways. Traversing Venezia is simple, and a delight providing the weather is cooperative. The island is bisected by the Grand Canal which cuts an "S" shape through the city. Three bridges span the canal, one near where the canal opens into the lagoon and the landing on Piazza San Marco; the Rialto, which provides a crossing in the heart of the city; and the bridge near the causeway and train station. Know the way to these bridges and you can go just about anywhere on the island and as quickly or slowly as you choose to stroll.

Finding anything in between can be, and in fact usually is, a real adventure. There are no street signs and the streets and canals, if they have names, are seemingly the well kept secret of the locals. The only aids are the ever present "Per" signs. "Per San Marco", "Per Rialto" and "Per Ferro Via" proclaim the way to the Piazza San Marco, the Rialto Bridge and the Train Station.

We spy the first of the "Per Rialto" signs and join the crush of people all busy enjoying the sensation of being slightly lost and anticipating new and intriguing discoveries in each new alley and around every new corner. We soon reach the Rialto and make our way across its broad marble steps, polished by centuries of footfalls, to descend into Venezia's open air market. No time to dally, we both are desperate to know if Mario and his cozy little shop of gorgeous and inexpensive prints is still thriving. Ginny carries his card, carefully saved these last five years for this very day when we return. It is the size of a postcard and one side carries a map of nameless canals and blocks with his shop pinpointed in the middle. Other than the Grand Canal and the Rialto we have no means of orienting the map and we can't be sure if canals and alleys haven't been left out in order to make it readable but otherwise unfollowable.

Ah, this cross alley seems familiar. But no signs of the shop. Well, we'll keep going. After the Rialto, the signs have changed to "Per Ferro Via" and we soon find ourselves there. We've walked the entire island by the most common route without finding Mario and his little shop. Somehow, we've missed it since we both distinctly remember it being located somewhere between Ferro Via and the Rialto on this main route. Back we go, and we even try a couple of short diversions thinking perhaps we are a block to the left or right of where we should be. Again we reach the Rialto and no luck. Perhaps Mario couldn't wait for our return? No, somehow we know he's here and we simply haven't been able to find him yet as the light dims with evening's approach and shopkeepers close up during the evening meal. For the second, and last, time during our trip I have the strange sensation of being lost without feeling lost.

*****

We sleep undisturbed by the proximity of the piazza. The noise from the square during the evening twists and pushes its way through the arcade and down the alley but then exhausts itself as it struggles up to our window and finally dies; a tiny whisper pleading entry before an unresponsive shutter. The sounds of the footfalls of late night merry makers passing below our window are dulled by the wet worn stone. Many more who might be out late for a nightcap at one of the piazza's cafes must be put off by the threat of more rain.

Next morning we are thrown full tilt into the hustle of the Venetian tourist trade as our hotel botches the continental breakfast. It seems that while our tour party has the breakfast included in the package there are other parties and also individuals staying at the hotel who pay as they go. The dining room scene is a confused and uncoordinated mass of waiters, guests who have paid for the breakfast as well as patrons who must have their orders taken and billed separately. There is no help yourself buffet style to the breakfast either, as this might allow non payers to eat for free. The waiters are forced to act more like school cafeteria monitors, ensuring that prepaid guests sit at the proper tables and forced also to wait on us for coffee or tea when we might easily serve ourselves. The management must be saving lira with the arrangement or else it would be ended in short order.

When we do sit down to breakfast we find out one of the ways the money is kept in management's pockets. One glass of juice! No refills. One roll! No seconds. Thanks for nothing! Our tables are preset and when we see the waiters removing a setting of juice and roll when a seat isn't occupied we quickly revert to the group defense mentality that served us so well during the Firenze no single rooms episode. Waiters are quickly sent shuffling off by members of the group. No toccare! We have other guests who haven't been to breakfast yet and we are saving the seats for them. This seems to work except that there are many more people than seats and the waiters are usually busy working the pay per meal section of the dining room where there is an opportunity for tips. The late risers risk sitting down to an empty or uncleared place at a table with what seems an eternity to wait to be waited on.

After breakfast, the group from the first class hotel arrives and we meet our tour guide for the morning tour. Our guide is entertaining and has the attitude that Venezia has always led the way. First, she tries to convince us that Venezia is the mother of all republics since it was effectively ruled by a group of about 400 families, unlike Firenze to the south with its dominant Medici. Funny, but no one has told her that a republic is the rule by representatives elected by all. I guess the leading families composed all of the people who really counted. Or perhaps, they managed to continually elect themselves.

In the Doge's Palace she shows us the lion's mouths, a sort of post office system for denouncing persons for crimes against the state. Each lion's mouth is a small box built into a wall of the palace with a slot for inserting the written and witnessed denunciation. Each mouth was controlled by one of the Venetian senators on a rotating basis. The trick was to make multiple denunciations since a single denunciation might end up in a box controlled by the very person you were denouncing! The lion in the system referred to the lion face relief carved around the slot so that the slot served as the lion's mouth. St. Mark, the patron saint of Venice, is responsible for the lion theme that abounds throughout Venice, as his episcopal symbol is a lion. Here, at least, our guide is convincing in her argument for Venetian priority, as I think of the special confidential phone numbers provided by our own police for reporting information about crimes.

Next, we cross the famous Bridge of Sighs. This bridge joins the Doge's Palace and Venezia's jail, separated by a canal, at the second floor level. It is actually two passageways, one going and one coming. Walking across the bridge to the jail, we hear how advanced Venezia was in its treatment of prisoners. Warm, spacious, well appointed cells for these criminals, if only because they usually were leading citizens of the day! And yes, by the standards of two or three hundred years ago, the cells do look pretty attractive. But as we were walking to the second floor of the Doge's Palace, our guide had mentioned that the older dungeons in the basement of the palace could no longer be toured, due to the terrible dank conditions and smell from the seepage of centuries. I wonder who spent their years of incarceration in the old jail instead of the new one? Back across the Bridge of Sighs with a pause in the middle to look out through the exquisite stone arabesque screen windows. You can see the lagoon from this vantage point as well as a bridge over the canal where it leads into the lagoon. This is where prisoners on their way to execution might pause for a final glimpse of family, friends and freedom and for a final sigh in anguish or resignation over their fast approaching fate.

After the Doge's Palace we go through the portion of San Marco open without additional charge to tourists. Walking down the aisle of the cathedral is a unique exercise in marking the passage of time on a scale not usually comprehended by man. All of Venice is based on pilings, massive tree trunks driven like so many nails into the muck, to provide a foundation for the Venetian terra firma. Over the centuries the pilings tend to settle further and unevenly so that the surface actually sags. In most instances the sagging is smoothed over as flagstone, pave and flooring in the piazzas, alleyways and buildings is maintained and levelled. But the Cathedral of San Marco is an entirely different matter. Here the weight of the piers supporting the domes of the Byzantine style edifice have accelerated the settling of the supporting piles. And for diverse reasons, the Venetians are unable or unwilling to restore the flooring composed of a patchwork of designs in various colored marbles. So as you walk towards the apse of the church you encounter swells and dips in the floor of as much as two feet. Like counting growth rings in a cross section of an old tree, the cautious walk into the dim interior of San Marco serves to make the concept of hundreds of years very real in my mind.

Out of the church we go without seeing the famous altar piece of gold and precious stones and without climbing to the choir and its adjoining room where the even more famous bronze horses of the facade of San Marco are now on display, safe from the vagaries of weather and pigeon droppings. Access to both the altar piece and the horses is an extra charge that the tour operator has not included. Come on, American Express, is the parsimonious image worth the two or three dollars you save? Especially as it is not time that limits our tour.

We are led to a glass blowing demonstration where our tour guide leaves us. We are now in the clutches of the true merchants of Venice! After a couple of minutes as our new guide narrates a demonstration by one of the business' workmen we are carefully herded into the shop's display rooms and subjected to a cloying sales pitch for some of the ugliest glassware I have ever seen. We're talking tea services in your choice of the most lurid colors imaginable. Blues, reds, greens in tints and finishes such as you have only seen on Christmas tree ornaments. With gold trim filigree just in case your guests might not realize how expensive the stuff is. And durable! The salesman drops a teacup from eye level to the table. I see the headlines scream across the page. Teacup THROWN to certain DESTRUCTION and LIVES to tell about it! No soft sell here! They have us now and by God we will pay for that three minute demo we were just lured into. Don't want a tea service? Don't like Edwardian glassware? NOoooooo problem! Just amble about their display rooms and if you even blink at something one of their salesmen is on you like hair on a gorilla! Yes, everything can be shipped direct! All is guaranteed! Any breakage is immediately replaced (there's a trick, I guess I'd have to break it right here in the showroom instead of in Atlanta)! No shipping charges! No duty! Pay cash and receive a special discount (right fella, the one you give year round, every year), special sale this week only (sure, I won't be around to hear that its been extended for just one more week)!

Oh no! I've walked through each room searching vainly for the exit (sir, would you like to examine our beautiful collection of figurines?) and discover that there is none! This may be the first place on the tour we will have to pay to get out of instead of into. I backtrack to find Ginny and Mom eyeing a piece of glass. Quickly, before all hope is lost I grab them both by the elbows. "Dustcatcher, let's get out of here." I speak in low tones and eye the enemy all around us, sharks, barracuda and lampreys all waiting impatiently, fins crossed but ready to spring forward and shred us at the slightest sign of weakness. We finally beat a retreat out the way we came in. Down the stairs we fly, afraid of the sudden tug at our sleeves (But madames will surely want to look at our lovely vases and candy dishes? And just for you, right this minute, a special price!). Two ladies are laboring up the stairs. Shall we warn them? No, they are actually looking for glassware. Come to think of it, they look like the type who would just love that blue tea service. Yes, definitely the blue tea service. No, not the red type at all, not old enough by at least a decade or two. Good thing we didn't buy it and deprive them of such a beautiful bargain!

*****

After our narrow escape we take advantage of a break in the intermittent rains to head off once again in search of Mario the printmaker. Mom finds an enterprising vendor in the square who has a variety of knit handbags for reasonable prices and who is also willing to bargain when he sees the traces of indecision on her face. A deal is struck and Mom sports the new purchase for the rest of the day. She had gotten a similar bag for a friend while in Roma and decided that they were too nice not to get one for herself should they pop up anywhere else in our travels.

In the clear light of day we retrace our steps from last evening. Over the Rialto we go and I buy a slice of fresh coconut at the market on the other side. Slices are 500 lira but I'm after the 500 lira coin I'll get in change more than the coconut itself. The coins are unique in my experience, with a brasslike interior portion surrounded by a silvery alloy. Great gifts for young nieces and nephews back home due to their novelty and I also have an idea to create a set of poker chips using Italian coins if I can gather enough. I have only a couple dozen of the 500 lira coins by now and have despaired of making a poker chip set. I would ask for some rolls of the coins at the banks where we have cashed our traveller's checks but none of the cashiers speaks English. Later, Mom will present me with 10 coins all at once. Has she been holding out on me? I've asked both Ginny and her to give me any change they have at the end of the day. No, she simply asked the hotel clerk for them in change of a 5000 lira note! Too late, I realize that I might have as many as I wanted with no trouble at all.

We find Mario's shop! Apparently we had missed it the night before because he closes before dinner each day and rolls an awning like metal door down over not only the windows but the shop sign as well. In we go to find that he is as prolific as five years ago but has now taken to producing colored prints. This is a much more difficult and time consuming process since his print technique is etching and the plates must be hand inked and then polished so that the ink is retained only in the etched areas. Care must be taken to ensure that colors do not run together and result in a listless muddy tint. If the print is monotone then prints can be pulled much faster and with less tedium. Mario has actually upgraded the quality of his product since we first encountered him!

But some things are unchanged. We speak only a few words of Italian and he speaks no English. This isn't too much of a problem as we look at the various prints and make our selections. Then it is a problem. We find a print that we all like. Mom wants it for herself and I want it for hobbitt. "Due, Mario?", I ask and he heads to the back of the shop. Out he comes with another. But the colors are subtle and just different enough that we don't care for it. I try to point out the color I'm looking for in the first print as a reference for him. Finally he understands and brings out all of the remaining copies of the print. And thus hobbitt will have the print I want for him.

More discussion and selection among us and I start to explain the etching process to Ginny. Mario sees the gestures I make with my hands as I apply a tar base to the imaginary plate, etch lines through it to make the design, and then place it in an acid bath to etch the exposed portions of the plate. I must be good with my hand jive as Mario recognizes what I am describing and retrieves a plate from the back room to show Ginny.

Eventually we have selected a series of flower prints for ourselves, street and canal scenes for friends, and a large print to give as a wedding present to a member of Ginny's group at AT&T. Its time to total up the tab. Mario's prices have not escalated greatly since our first visit, despite the transition from monotone to color. Our bill totals just over 100,000 lira. That works out to about $10 U.S. per print including the larger and more expensive wedding present. As we leave I show Mario the shop card from 5 years ago. "Cinque anno, Mario!", as I point to the card and then to Ginny and myself. Mario seems especially pleased to know we appreciated his work enough to seek him out again and his smile as he thanks us fills the Moment with a burst of sunshine.

We continue on across the city following the Per Ferro Via signs. None of us is particularly interested in the gondola rides that are offered by the gondoliers idling about the many landings. Instead, Ginny and I have decided that we will walk to the train station near where we stayed the first visit and have a late lunch followed by a return ride to San Marco via a vaporetto so that Mom can enjoy the sights as we travel the Grand Canal. The weather improves as we walk and by the time we reach the restaurant we are looking forward to a leisurely lunch in the clear light breeze of the open air seating along the canal. Ginny and Mom order light meals. I decide to seize the Moment and ask about the fresh fish. "Ah senor, we have very fine fish today, I will show you". Moments later our waiter presents two different fish for my approval. I eye them up and wonder if the smaller will be enough, once it is filleted, for the appetite I've developed. The waiter recommends the larger fish, a sea bass, and I agree when both Ginny and Mom say they will try it.

The fish is delicious. Fresh, juicy, filleted at table side, served with large juicy lemon quarters. I love fish with lemon juice! We take our time eating and then linger over our table enjoying the first real sun we've had since coming to Venezia. The waiters seem never to be in a rush and it is near the end of the lunch hour anyway and we are unbothered as they prepare the tables around us with dinner settings. Finally, we decide to make sure we catch the vaporetto before the weather changes again and I ask for the bill. "Mama mia! Ginny, look at the total. Something must be wrong!" Ginny checks the tab and then double checks with her calculator. "No, nothing wrong. Except the fish was 48,000 lira!" More feverish calculations on her machine and concurrently in my befuddled mind. My god, that fish cost $34! We pay and walk to the vaporetto station. Ginny and Mom are beset by their typical mother/daughter laughing fit at the absurdity of it all. I'm absolutely stunned. Why didn't I ask the prices of the fish? Because I'm a silly tourist who wasn't concerned about the price, that's why. Eat and learn!

*****

Most of those last two days in Venezia are a rain induced blur. We manage to find our way to an exhibition of Impressionist paintings from the National Gallery in Washington D.C. that has stopped here on its worldwide tour. We buy the catalog despite, or perhaps precisely because, it is available only in Italian. We pass on the exhibit of Thracian gold that is also in town. The weather has a grip on us but we fight back gamely. More than once we stroll out along the long wide promenade that hugs the lagoon to the left of the Doge's Palace as you stand in the Piazza San Marco with the cathedral and palazzo on your left. The promenade does not extend to the right very far but we follow it as well until we are forced back into the alleyways.

We decide to find our way to the point of the other half of the main island that juts out into the lagoon like a finger pointing to a smaller island in the lagoon. We cross the Grand Canal by the third bridge, the Academy, made of massive wood pilings and beams. The pace is quieter now, less crowded and also less hurried. There are no signs to guide us but the alleys funnel into each other as we near the point and the land narrows. We chance upon the museum of modern art that bears the name of its patron, Peggy Guggenheim. I wonder when we will stop thinking of the works of the Post Impressionists and the other early 20th century schools as modern art. A gulf of two global conflicts as well as unthought of advances in science and medicine separate this so called modernity from current lives.

We reach the point, anchored by a chiesa (church). Standing there in the intermittent drizzle for pictures reminds me of standing in the bow of the Nantucket ferry during one crossing I made in inclement weather. We don't linger, working our way back to the Academy bridge by a different route that takes us by a terrific restaurant, The Gondolier. We enjoy lunch there as much as the already infamous lunch in the sunshine by Ferro Via (and at far more modest prices). The restaurant serves up a delicious minnestrone and we relax and take in the stylish pictures of entertainment celebrities that adorn the walls.

We also take in the upper reaches of San Marco and the famous Greek bronzes, four chariot horses freed in antiquity from their driver and his vehicle. Venice acquired them long ago from somewhere in the East and except for a short sojurn in France after Napoleon conquered Venice in the late 1700's, the horses have stood on the facade of San Marco. The originals were moved inside when it became apparent that they could not weather the modern air borne pollutants and copies now endure the elements. Viewing the originals is a stark contrast to viewing the other great sculptures, The Pieta, The Moses and The David that we have encountered. Here in a small domed room that might hold 50 people if no one breathed, we are alone with the steeds for minutes on end and we take several pictures at our ease. We are so alone that we might each mount one of the great bronzes except for the imperious looks each were given by their ancient Greek sculptor. The sculptor knew horses. Wild eyes, flared nostrils and hooves raised in the act of stamping and scuffing the ground keeps every visitor at bay lest they suddenly lunge forward and trample the unwary or inattentive.

*****

We bid adieu to Venezia early the next morning. A bus engulfs us for the journey to Milano and the last full day in Italia. We travel through the Po River valley, the industrial stronghold of Italy. The landscape is unsubtly different. Instead of small farm houses and outbuildings we glide by warehouses and factories. Little to remember or recommend about the passage to Milan other than the treasures that await us in the big city.

And Milan is a big city in the sense of the word as we Americans use it. Ancient surely, but thriving with new juxtaposed with the old. The entire group stays at the Hilton and after checking in we spend the afternoon touring the Sforza Palazzo, taking in Michelangelo's fourth and final treatment of bereaved mother and son, the Rondinini Pieta. Pictures are not allowed, which is simply ridiculous since film and flash cannot harm the marble. It is a bit too crowded and I decide not to sneak a picture. On to the small monastery church graced by Leonardo's Last Supper. The work is still partially obscured by the scaffolding of the restorers, just as it was five years ago. It seems to me that much of the fresco has disappeared from what I remember of our first visit. On to La Scala, where we tour the small opera museum and glance into the stage and seating area before moving across the street to the Duomo. Milano's cathedral is High Gothic in style and sports over 1000 spires as well as some magnificent stained glass windows. We end our tour with a walk through the Galleria, a great glass enclosed avenue lined with shops.

Already, we can feel the pace quickening. We will be home in less than 24 hours but one final evening awaits us and one final challenge to my memory for places and directions. Dinner is planned for Via Abbadessa, the restaurant we eat at our only other night in Milano. Recommended by another couple in our first tour group, we had gotten thoroughly lost attempting to find it until Ginny asked a man at a newspaper stall and was able to decipher enough of his Italian to get us on the right track again. This time around we are on our own and strike off on foot into the evening. Somehow, we find it. Apparently the trouble stems from the fact that the most direct route to the restaurant may in fact bring us to its back door. The antipasto is the best we have every encountered. Rather than have the waiter select we each make our way into the anteroom of the kitchen and load up our plates from a selection of at least 50 different dishes arrayed on two long tables. We indulge ourselves with a full course dinner followed by dessert and cappuchino. On the way out we discover that the rain has followed us from Venezia and I dash and then trudge back to the hotel for forgotten raincoats and umbrellas. I am a thorough water rat by the time I return to the restaurant but the rain is warm and beginning to let up as we commence our trip back to the hotel.

The Hilton is a first class hotel. Especially when the toilet in your room works properly which is not the case with ours. We reported the problem before leaving for dinner but nothing is done. Fortunately, Mom's room is not too far from ours and we avail ourselves of her facilities.

*****

As though to make up for the inconvenience, the hotel provides us with a sumptuous buffet breakfast. Mom cannot get over the variety and quantity and we help ourselves liberally since lunch on this day will be a bit chancy given that we will be in the airport and have access only to counter cafeterias.

Milano's airport is north of the city and we spend the short bus trip there gazing at the distant snow covered Alps. At the airport, chocolates and a bottle of Asti Spumante join the cousin's homemade wine and the myriad items we have acquired over the past two weeks to fill out our carry on bags. Pack mules, I'm sure, are treated better than this!

After what seems an eternity we board our flight home. I have a window seat and idle much of the time away gazing down at the Atlantic. Occasionally a small white sliver slides by below, a ship's wake. Could some sailor be looking up at our contrail at the same Moment?

At JFK we pass customs with barely a glance from the officials. With several planes just in from all points, I suppose they don't have the time or inclination to suspect a pair of peachy clean types such as Ginny and myself in the company of an equally peachy clean elderly lady such as Mom of any illicit activities. I'll have to remember that should I take up a life of crime.

We must make our way to LaGuardia for the Delta flight to Atlanta and the bus ride there is ample preparation for the subtle and not so subtle rigors and stress of the American way of life. Packed highways, obnoxious drivers, uncouth language, in short, the works. Why did we come back?

We manage to catch an earlier flight out of the big city but we are scattered about the plane. As we take off I explain to the woman seated next to me what happened and she offers to switch seats with Ginny. Maybe America is not as hopeless as I too often imagine. As we land, Ginny has a grip on my arm I wouldn't expect from a sumo wrestler, much less her, and vows never to fly again.

Next time I guess we go by boat.