We found the Villa Borghese and it was closed...

We learned, much to our surprise, that our hotel practically sits in the Vila Borghese (so we, Eric, had an obvious advantage). A quick march up the hill (past Largo Federico Fellini) and down a very long, but beautifully tree lined path, we eventually found the Museum. However, as in Eric's case, it was closed. It was Monday, you know. So we wandered the grounds, found the cafe, had a coffee (Leslie found what he claimed to be the most perfect specimen of the female rear so far on the trip; the owner, our adolescent waitress, did not acknowledge Leslie's existence), and then wandered all the way back through the park, back to the hotel for our fallback plan: the Vatican. That meant long pants (when you arrive at St. Peter's, you are confronted with signs that show human figures in shorts and tank tops, with the word No! underneath; on the side are figures in long sleeves and pants, accompanied by Si!. We had been warned in advance). Our hotel clerk told us exactly how to catch the bus there, but we never found the stop. So we hailed a cranky cab driver, and he dropped us off in magnificent St. Peter's square. We made our way along the very long wall around the Vatican to the museum to find, to our pleasant surprise, that there was no line (apparently the blocks long line forms in the morning, and, we learned, vaporizes by the time the drunks and sodomites show up in the afternoon). We ran through the Vatican Museum, having no choice but to move with the torrential river of tourists or get trampled. It is a pretty incredible place, but it is just too much. As one American tourist said, "It's just a bunch of friggin statues." After an hour, you tend to agree. Ended up in the Sistine Chapel where we were repeatedly shushed and forced to move along.

Professor Leslie noted that the original sin depicted by Michaelangelo in the Garden of Eden was not so much eating the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge as perhaps sex of the oral persuasion. Check it out: Adam reaches over a sitting Eve to grab fruit from the tree, with his parts placed suggestively in Eve's face. It is not subtle, even for us. And you've got to love tourists: no matter how many signs were posted, audio warnings played over the loudspeaker, or individual warnings issued by guards that pictures were prohibited, people snapped away. Couldn't help themselves. Of course, Aunt Lolly's digital instamatic won't begin to do justice to that magnificent ceiling, but what the hell. That pitiful photo shows Aunt Lolly was there, man!

To St. Peter's, which I won't bother to try to describe, except to say it's big, gaudy, and awesome (not so much in the teenage vernacular way). It, too, is hard to take in on one visit. So you grab what details you can: for me, it was Pope John's body laying in a glass case in front of one altar. Beyond creepy. And for a religion that insists that what matters is not the material world, that in fact the material world is misleading and pointless, the Catholic chuch sure revels in some curious material notions: the bodies of dead popes, the bones of St. Peter (in a box beneath the main altar), relics, and of course the gold, bronze and marble that line the walls of so many of these Roman churches. Oh, well. It can be awfully pretty.

We headed down and around to the underground crypt where the popes are buried. The highpoint, if you can call it that, is the fairly new grave stone of Pope John Paul II, the only one with fresh flowers and candles and other signs of, well, life. As we passed by the crypt holding the bones of St. Peter, a school group of Asian children, led by two nuns, promptly fell to their knees and began to pray. Reminded me of my childhood, so long ago.

We were too cash poor to pay the 7 Euro to ride the elevator to the dome (I was worried about vergito and claustrophobia anyway), so we slipped away to sip expensive beers down the street. Followed that up with a hike to the Trastavere, the cool homey neighborhood across the Tiber river from Rome proper. Found a restaurant recommended by someone, and sat down to a big dinner of fried calamari and, for me, a man size steak; for Leslie, what he thought would be a delicate serving of red sauce and meat, but what turned out to be a family sized platter of Italian chow.

Leslie chatted it up with a table of obvious Americans nearby, who claimed they were from Texas. One of the women, the chatty one, said, "Isn't this wonderful? It reminds us of Texas." Leslie responded, "How? What here could possibly remind you of Texas." Her husband said, "The heat." OK, we'll give him that. But she continued, "Well, you know, San Antonio. We have the river walk." Stunned silence all around. Moments later, she asked the professor, "Is there something called the Parthenon?" Leslie answered, "You're kidding, right?" Apparently, she had heard of the Parthenon (which is in Greece), but kept running across something called the Pantheon in Rome, and didn't know if they were the same thing. (If this exchange makes us come off as snooty, elitist, intellectual snobs...so be it. We are!)

On to take refreshment at the Campi de Fiore, a lovely square not far from the Tiber, the centerpiece of which is a statue of Giordano somebody. It seems he was branded a heretic back in the day and burned to death on this very spot. Not sure why the townsfolk want to memorialize this ugly little incident with a statue, but there it is, glaring down at you while you sip your Italian beer. We chose a cafe with what appeared to be the most comfortable seating, only to find that we were about the only ones to do so, all night. Everyone else chose to sit at other cafes, across the piazza from us. If you were sensitive, as I can be, you might think folks were avoiding us. That can't be, can it?

This morning to the Villa Borghese because our hotel clerk got us reservations! Stunning stuff. Everyone room in this sizable villa covered with incredible paintings and statuary collected by the Borghese family...nothing is left undecorated. It's dizzying, really. Although you do begin to question the propriety of a cardinal of the Catholic church having and using the wealth to buy this great art collection (not to mention hanging pictures of naked ladies over his bed). I don't meant to sound Puritan, but come on.

Off to Naples tomorrow and, I fear, more heat.