All Roads Blaze to Rome
A bright orb is stalking me in Rome, as I stroll along the banks of the great, famous Tiber River. On a trail of concrete, a strobe of yellow sun rays follows me, as I skirt along the Ponte Cavour Bridge. Before crossing over, I stop to marvel at the glistening landscape on the Vatican side of the river. The iconic dome of Saint Peter's Basilica-the crown jewel of the Papal City-dominates the skyline, seen many miles away from the historic center of Rome.
Built on Vatican Hill as a sacrosanct monument to Saint Peter, it is considered the largest Christian church in the world. While many refute history, Roman Catholics (I'm a lifetime member) believe the apostolic martyr, the first pope, is buried underneath the Basilica. High above, the majestic Cupola, designed by Michelangelo, sparkles in the sky like a jeweled Fabergé egg with sixteen eyes, windows streaming light inside the dome. At the very top, the crown supports a Latin gold cross that points to the heavens above. A friend who lives in Rome tells me the view from the dome is the supreme panorama of the Eternal City.
This pilgrimage to Rome (my fifth) is for Doris, a holocaust survivor who infused me with her survival stories. She never got locked in a concentration camp, nor a ghetto. Yet she escaped an evil yoke, as she hid in a sprawling forest in Poland and later, she blended on the canvas on a small farm. The crops harvested on the fertile land were once sold in a produce cart outside of her father's textile factory, in Lodz. Many years later, a hospital in Florida would be her only incarceration; a place she would temporarily escape, dreaming of far away places like Rome. Doris never visited the capital of Italy and sadly, she never will. The fate breaker: I shall bring Rome to her, sharing the sights and sounds of the Eternal City, through my eyes, carousing in an enchanted outdoor playground, shaped in a circle with folding maps that look like game boards, adorned with ornate tokens and narrow mazes that intersect at sun-drenched piazzas.
The sun stings my bare shoulders as I continue my organic stroll with no map or guide book, in the heart of modern Rome. I am staying nearby at the Visconti Palace Hotel, four out of the eight nights. My first exploration in piedi, on foot carves a discovery trail, so I can easily find my way back to the hotel without leaving stale bread crumbs. Then again, getting lost opens new vistas, and one should blaze those trails on foot, rather than inside a metered taxi. As I familiarize myself with the neighborhood, I instantly outsmart the sinister cab driver who attempts to take me on a longer route to run up the meter. A common scam in major European cities, one I have just experienced in Paris. Most importantly, I wish to map where I can find a strong espresso, a panini with tomato and buffalo mozzarella or a pizza-delicacies for a vegetarian in Rome.
I also want to find the neighborhood farmacia, the Italian version of Walgreens or Duane Reade, found on every corner like Starbucks back home. The drug stores flash neon first aid signs, instead of green mermaids. When traveling, I always end up buying a luggage load of hair and skin products. Nearby, there is a Sephora, too. Dio aiutami. God help me, confessions from a beauty product junkie.
Finally, I cross the Ponte Cavour-one of the many bridges that span the Tiber River-the central bridge connects the Prati neighborhood to the heart of Rome. Construction of the Ponte Cavour, in 1868 (5 years to complete) was a crucial link in the Unification of Italy. Walking through footnotes of history, I spot two words, newly spray painted in black, on the side of the bridge: LAZIO MERDA. While Graffiti in Rome is common, the "Lazio is Shit" insult to a Roman rival soccer team literally makes me laugh out loud. One of my favorite words in Italian is merda, similar to mierda in Spanish. Crap, shit! And there are a few other dirty words I learned in a little black book, concealed from my Italian language teacher, and secretly hidden from my teenage children. My Italian soccer friends (none of them Lazio fans) instantly like the Lazio Merda photo on Instagram. Fabrizio, my Roman tennis coach posted a comment: Forza Roma! Go Roma!" I slip my iPhone in a side pocket, echoing the same cheer as a face flashes in my mind of the Italian version of David Beckham-the mighty handsome Francesco Totti, the Captain of AS Roma, a striker dubbed the King of Rome. Google him. Mamma Mia! Thank God I'm not old enough to be his mother, beams loudly in my forty-something mind. And then, the creative muses grab hold of me and instruct me to write a magical tale about Totti: And you shall call it Striker King... Ah, the mind of a writer spins like a violent wind turbine. One must obey their commands or forever hold the shame of not birthing an untold story. It's no wonder why so many authors went literally mad. Sadly, literary greats Ernest Hemingway and Sylvia Plath took their own lives. Oftentimes, life is more tragic than fiction. And, life is certainly stranger than fiction.
Continuing on, I pass an old man reading the Sunday edition of Il Messaggero at a sidewalk cafe. The robust smell of coffee beans grinding in a machine nudges me in line to order a cafe. "A double espresso, per favore," I tell the man behind the counter. Aaaah, I love Rome!
Planes, Trains and the Autostrada
After flying from Miami non-stop to Paris, three days later I bought a train ticket at Gare de Lyon. A complicated process, trying to decipher signs that read in French. Luckily, I translated my "today" purchase, versus a "tomorrow" ticket, before inching my way into the long lines. Later that day, a TVG train took me to Torino (Italian for Turin). Outside of the train station, Porta Sussa, a friendly cab driver offers to take me 45 kilometers west to Ivrea, a charming Northwestern city-the birthplace of my paternal grandfather. My time spent there is an adventure I promise to share later.
After four days in Ivrea, I hitched a southbound train and replanted on the cobbles in Rome. Michelle the Explorer, as my friend calls me, is once again in her favorite city in the world. Sure, I have other places to visit. But, there is something extraordinary about Rome... Here, a thrilling energy zips through me as if I'm speeding on a buzzing scooter, down narrow cobblestone streets, weaving dangerously through a flock of tourists. Or, maybe it's the endorphin rush similar to reaching climax. Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray and Love, famously labeled Rome with one word: Sex. Maybe her amico was right when he dubbed that word for the Eternal City. Lust floats in the wind like the scent of an apple pie baking in the oven. But, sex isn’t what fully erects (no pun intended) the City. Of course, if you are looking for SEX, no matter where you are, you will find it...
A waiter winks seductively when he visits your table, followed by more stares from the kitchen, or the flirty bartender who grins as he pours your drink topped with a seductive invitation to the secret garden under the light of the moon or the tall, dark handsome man at the hotel gym, flexing his biceps and quads in a gladiator pose, as you burn last night's dinner on a full out sprint.
Fortunately, one common female intercourse has faded in Italy, long are the days of Italian men pinching an American girl's natiche, butt. Although, it could very well happen. And it happened to me-a highlight on my Roman Holiday reel. Last year, outside the Center of Rome, at my hotel in Monte Mario, an Italian rugby player reached out and... squeezed my right butt cheek. In the mist of celebratory festivities, the Azzuri (national Italian team) beat Scotland. And he (whomever he was) certainly deserved a victory pinch. Rather than take offense, I blushed, finding the gesture flattering, and rather amusing. For one week, I shared a record number of espresso shots and space in the gym with those handsome, well-mannered husky athletes. Me, a quasi member of the team, wore a different uniform: a short tennis skirt, playing on the courts in the back of the hotel, at Excel Sporting Club. And, later I found myself a fan, cheering for them inside Stadio Olimpico, in a thrilling rugby match with thousands of fans wearing jester hats and drinking Peroni, the Italian beer sponsor at the event. Unlike a Roma-Lazio rival match held at the same stadium, there were no curse words hurled in Italian, and both sides, the Scots and Italians partied peacefully together outside the stadium.
Apart from the super-charged physical level found in Rome, there is a supreme level of spirituality that spritzes my soul here. And, you don’t have to be Roman Catholic to experience it. Doris is Jewish and wants to see Rome. And my travel partner, Linda isn’t Catholic. Yet she finds the city to awaken her faith in God, and she feels most alive here. She joined me as a writing assistant on a three week sabbatical from her life back in Dallas. She is not searching for Italian men. Instead, Linda is soul searching oceans away from her comfort zone, large family and busy medical practice that she operates with her husband, a physician. The business of saving lives consumes her as she and her husband battle institutional bullies. "It's like fighting an endless boxing match," she says. "The very medical organizations tasked with saving our lives supports pharmaceutical companies, more so than patient survival rates." As a thyroid cancer survivor, I believe her. I have fired a handful of doctors like Donald Trump on the Apprentice: You are fired! The end all cure to battle cancer cells, in my opinion, is not overloading on chemotherapy or radiation. I have seen far too many friends and family members lose hope, after undergoing harsh treatments only to be told the cancer has returned. And in many cases, the cancer returns as though seeking revenge, growing in metastatic full force. I opt for nature's cure... mushrooms, medical Marijuana? Sure, why not? It's worth a shot...
In what has become a famous case for alternative treatments, the blockbuster movie, Dallas Buyers Club, (ironically, Linda and I watched the flick on the airplane) based on a true story, portrays a powerful government organization, the FDA, classifying and criminalizing a "natural remedy" that simply prolonged the lives of AIDS patients. The movie was a whistle blower on film, which shocked audiences at movie houses across the world. The protagonist later dies, but he left a legacy, one that teaches us to advocate and fight for alternative cures, including bullies, like Goalith on the mount, in a government task force.
Linda is a walking poster for integrated, holistic medicine. She looks like she could be my older sister. She certainly does not look like a grandmother of six, going on seven. Then again, she learned several secrets to living well: Eat organic as much as you can, take your supplements and most importantly.. follow your bliss. Well, I taught her the latter after following my own blissful path, which
started immediately after my marriage therapist, Dr M said, "Every woman needs a break from life. "Michelle, you must take at least four weeks in one calendar year, away from your spouse and children.”
Hallelujah! Sweet holy Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus from Nazareth, and Buddha under the Bodhi tree to my ears! Unfortunately, many of my female counterparts...
I am talking to you!
do not have the longing or wanderlust to venture oceans apart from home. To my dear reader, I hope you will travel to Rome or somewhere far out away, one day.
A bright orb is stalking me in Rome, as I stroll along the banks of the great, famous Tiber River. On a trail of concrete, a strobe of yellow sun rays follows me, as I skirt along the Ponte Cavour Bridge. Before crossing over, I stop to marvel at the glistening landscape on the Vatican side of the river. The iconic dome of Saint Peter's Basilica-the crown jewel of the Papal City-dominates the skyline, seen many miles away from the historic center of Rome.
Built on Vatican Hill as a sacrosanct monument to Saint Peter, it is considered the largest Christian church in the world. While many refute history, Roman Catholics (I'm a lifetime member) believe the apostolic martyr, the first pope, is buried underneath the Basilica. High above, the majestic Cupola, designed by Michelangelo, sparkles in the sky like a jeweled Fabergé egg with sixteen eyes, windows streaming light inside the dome. At the very top, the crown supports a Latin gold cross that points to the heavens above. A friend who lives in Rome tells me the view from the dome is the supreme panorama of the Eternal City.
This pilgrimage to Rome (my fifth) is for Doris, a holocaust survivor who infused me with her survival stories. She never got locked in a concentration camp, nor a ghetto. Yet she escaped an evil yoke, as she hid in a sprawling forest in Poland and later, she blended on the canvas on a small farm. The crops harvested on the fertile land were once sold in a produce cart outside of her father's textile factory, in Lodz. Many years later, a hospital in Florida would be her only incarceration; a place she would temporarily escape, dreaming of far away places like Rome. Doris never visited the capital of Italy and sadly, she never will. The fate breaker: I shall bring Rome to her, sharing the sights and sounds of the Eternal City, through my eyes, carousing in an enchanted outdoor playground, shaped in a circle with folding maps that look like game boards, adorned with ornate tokens and narrow mazes that intersect at sun-drenched piazzas.
The sun stings my bare shoulders as I continue my organic stroll with no map or guide book, in the heart of modern Rome. I am staying nearby at the Visconti Palace Hotel, four out of the eight nights. My first exploration in piedi, on foot carves a discovery trail, so I can easily find my way back to the hotel without leaving stale bread crumbs. Then again, getting lost opens new vistas, and one should blaze those trails on foot, rather than inside a metered taxi. As I familiarize myself with the neighborhood, I instantly outsmart the sinister cab driver who attempts to take me on a longer route to run up the meter. A common scam in major European cities, one I have just experienced in Paris. Most importantly, I wish to map where I can find a strong espresso, a panini with tomato and buffalo mozzarella or a pizza-delicacies for a vegetarian in Rome.
I also want to find the neighborhood farmacia, the Italian version of Walgreens or Duane Reade, found on every corner like Starbucks back home. The drug stores flash neon first aid signs, instead of green mermaids. When traveling, I always end up buying a luggage load of hair and skin products. Nearby, there is a Sephora, too. Dio aiutami. God help me, confessions from a beauty product junkie.
Finally, I cross the Ponte Cavour-one of the many bridges that span the Tiber River-the central bridge connects the Prati neighborhood to the heart of Rome. Construction of the Ponte Cavour, in 1868 (5 years to complete) was a crucial link in the Unification of Italy. Walking through footnotes of history, I spot two words, newly spray painted in black, on the side of the bridge: LAZIO MERDA. While Graffiti in Rome is common, the "Lazio is Shit" insult to a Roman rival soccer team literally makes me laugh out loud. One of my favorite words in Italian is merda, similar to mierda in Spanish. Crap, shit! And there are a few other dirty words I learned in a little black book, concealed from my Italian language teacher, and secretly hidden from my teenage children. My Italian soccer friends (none of them Lazio fans) instantly like the Lazio Merda photo on Instagram. Fabrizio, my Roman tennis coach posted a comment: Forza Roma! Go Roma!" I slip my iPhone in a side pocket, echoing the same cheer as a face flashes in my mind of the Italian version of David Beckham-the mighty handsome Francesco Totti, the Captain of AS Roma, a striker dubbed the King of Rome. Google him. Mamma Mia! Thank God I'm not old enough to be his mother, beams loudly in my forty-something mind. And then, the creative muses grab hold of me and instruct me to write a magical tale about Totti: And you shall call it Striker King... Ah, the mind of a writer spins like a violent wind turbine. One must obey their commands or forever hold the shame of not birthing an untold story. It's no wonder why so many authors went literally mad. Sadly, literary greats Ernest Hemingway and Sylvia Plath took their own lives. Oftentimes, life is more tragic than fiction. And, life is certainly stranger than fiction.
Continuing on, I pass an old man reading the Sunday edition of Il Messaggero at a sidewalk cafe. The robust smell of coffee beans grinding in a machine nudges me in line to order a cafe. "A double espresso, per favore," I tell the man behind the counter. Aaaah, I love Rome!
Planes, Trains and the Autostrada
After flying from Miami non-stop to Paris, three days later I bought a train ticket at Gare de Lyon. A complicated process, trying to decipher signs that read in French. Luckily, I translated my "today" purchase, versus a "tomorrow" ticket, before inching my way into the long lines. Later that day, a TVG train took me to Torino (Italian for Turin). Outside of the train station, Porta Sussa, a friendly cab driver offers to take me 45 kilometers west to Ivrea, a charming Northwestern city-the birthplace of my paternal grandfather. My time spent there is an adventure I promise to share later.
After four days in Ivrea, I hitched a southbound train and replanted on the cobbles in Rome. Michelle the Explorer, as my friend calls me, is once again in her favorite city in the world. Sure, I have other places to visit. But, there is something extraordinary about Rome... Here, a thrilling energy zips through me as if I'm speeding on a buzzing scooter, down narrow cobblestone streets, weaving dangerously through a flock of tourists. Or, maybe it's the endorphin rush similar to reaching climax. Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray and Love, famously labeled Rome with one word: Sex. Maybe her amico was right when he dubbed that word for the Eternal City. Lust floats in the wind like the scent of an apple pie baking in the oven. But, sex isn’t what fully erects (no pun intended) the City. Of course, if you are looking for SEX, no matter where you are, you will find it...
A waiter winks seductively when he visits your table, followed by more stares from the kitchen, or the flirty bartender who grins as he pours your drink topped with a seductive invitation to the secret garden under the light of the moon or the tall, dark handsome man at the hotel gym, flexing his biceps and quads in a gladiator pose, as you burn last night's dinner on a full out sprint.
Fortunately, one common female intercourse has faded in Italy, long are the days of Italian men pinching an American girl's natiche, butt. Although, it could very well happen. And it happened to me-a highlight on my Roman Holiday reel. Last year, outside the Center of Rome, at my hotel in Monte Mario, an Italian rugby player reached out and... squeezed my right butt cheek. In the mist of celebratory festivities, the Azzuri (national Italian team) beat Scotland. And he (whomever he was) certainly deserved a victory pinch. Rather than take offense, I blushed, finding the gesture flattering, and rather amusing. For one week, I shared a record number of espresso shots and space in the gym with those handsome, well-mannered husky athletes. Me, a quasi member of the team, wore a different uniform: a short tennis skirt, playing on the courts in the back of the hotel, at Excel Sporting Club. And, later I found myself a fan, cheering for them inside Stadio Olimpico, in a thrilling rugby match with thousands of fans wearing jester hats and drinking Peroni, the Italian beer sponsor at the event. Unlike a Roma-Lazio rival match held at the same stadium, there were no curse words hurled in Italian, and both sides, the Scots and Italians partied peacefully together outside the stadium.
Apart from the super-charged physical level found in Rome, there is a supreme level of spirituality that spritzes my soul here. And, you don’t have to be Roman Catholic to experience it. Doris is Jewish and wants to see Rome. And my travel partner, Linda isn’t Catholic. Yet she finds the city to awaken her faith in God, and she feels most alive here. She joined me as a writing assistant on a three week sabbatical from her life back in Dallas. She is not searching for Italian men. Instead, Linda is soul searching oceans away from her comfort zone, large family and busy medical practice that she operates with her husband, a physician. The business of saving lives consumes her as she and her husband battle institutional bullies. "It's like fighting an endless boxing match," she says. "The very medical organizations tasked with saving our lives supports pharmaceutical companies, more so than patient survival rates." As a thyroid cancer survivor, I believe her. I have fired a handful of doctors like Donald Trump on the Apprentice: You are fired! The end all cure to battle cancer cells, in my opinion, is not overloading on chemotherapy or radiation. I have seen far too many friends and family members lose hope, after undergoing harsh treatments only to be told the cancer has returned. And in many cases, the cancer returns as though seeking revenge, growing in metastatic full force. I opt for nature's cure... mushrooms, medical Marijuana? Sure, why not? It's worth a shot...
In what has become a famous case for alternative treatments, the blockbuster movie, Dallas Buyers Club, (ironically, Linda and I watched the flick on the airplane) based on a true story, portrays a powerful government organization, the FDA, classifying and criminalizing a "natural remedy" that simply prolonged the lives of AIDS patients. The movie was a whistle blower on film, which shocked audiences at movie houses across the world. The protagonist later dies, but he left a legacy, one that teaches us to advocate and fight for alternative cures, including bullies, like Goalith on the mount, in a government task force.
Linda is a walking poster for integrated, holistic medicine. She looks like she could be my older sister. She certainly does not look like a grandmother of six, going on seven. Then again, she learned several secrets to living well: Eat organic as much as you can, take your supplements and most importantly.. follow your bliss. Well, I taught her the latter after following my own blissful path, which
started immediately after my marriage therapist, Dr M said, "Every woman needs a break from life. "Michelle, you must take at least four weeks in one calendar year, away from your spouse and children.”
Hallelujah! Sweet holy Moses on Mount Sinai, Jesus from Nazareth, and Buddha under the Bodhi tree to my ears! Unfortunately, many of my female counterparts...
I am talking to you!
do not have the longing or wanderlust to venture oceans apart from home. To my dear reader, I hope you will travel to Rome or somewhere far out away, one day.
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