5. Spanish Steps and Pasta

There was no doubt when we ambled two more blocks that we came upon our quest of the Spanish Steps; a monumental staircase, engulfed with the tranquillity of the setting sun. At it's base gushed a fountain shaped like a low slung sunken boat, done by Bernini. Threading our way through the relaxed crowd of artists, poets, authors, pickpockets and tourist we reached the top, The French Church of Trinita dei Monti and our first sunset over Rome. The blue sky softened with pinks and burnt oranges. A few wispy clouds highlighted the steeples that dominate Rome's skyline.

From the darkening East, a lone baritone church bell rang out. Just as its low tones began to fade into the night air, a bell in the West gonged a slightly higher note so that for a brief moment, the two harmonized and then the second bell alone cast its individual tone across the roof tops. Each church bell in the city was introduced by its predecessor, took center stage to throw a note high into the heavens. Rome lay bound, East to West-West to East; crisscrossed by ropes of solitary bells.

We paused, awed at the serenity ...and then hunger ripped into our thoughts. "Looks great, now lets find that cafe." Via Condotti is only a few blocks long.

"Where can it be? Let's take another look," I insisted. I peaked down every alley, over every fence and into dark doorways, but my grotto of literary saints was no where to be found. Disappointment overruled my stomach, no other restaurant held any appeal to me.

"No, this one's too small. This one smells greasy."

We tramped aimlessly through the streets until R. said, "Do you know what time it is? It's 9pm. Let's just eat here," he said indicating a corner restaurant.

The minute we entered I felt tenderly taken care of. The waiter, a genteel gray haired Italian began slowly stripping away my layers of exhaustion like he was readying a beloved child for night. "The toiletten is up the stairs where you may wash. I recommend the red wine with the pasta."

He brought the salad, mixed the oil and vinegar and gently tossed the crisp greens before equally dividing it onto our plates. He then brought the red wine...I must pause here to describe the wine and pasta because this was the best meal of our Roman Adventure. The other pasta's tasted and had the texture of "Chef Boy Ardee", like we use to eat it, straight from the can. But tonight was different. The wine... red wine...Italian wine, served in a clear curved decanter, that sparkled in the candle light: smooth, dry, without even one harsh tanner. I watched the busboy as he cleaned and set the corner table. I lifted my glass. The aroma of grandma's musty attic, where I use to spend rainy autumn afternoons filled my nostrils. Relaxing into the chair, I took a sip, swirled the wine around my mouth and let it wash away the day's grime from my palate. The second sip awoke my taste buds letting me savor the cool, slightly tart grape. The third cranked up my stomach so that it rumbled and rattled like an old Ford.

The wine set up my Buccal cavity like the busboy set the table. First cleaning, spreading the linen, smoothing out the wrinkles and then polishing my glandular utensils. Timing the action of the wine, knowing my oral table was perfectly set, a spicy clam-pasta was placed before me. Like my sandalwood incense, with its thin curl of smoke fills every corner of my bedroom, one swirl of this pasta sent warmth curling around my tongue, getting hotter and hotter as it rose up into my nasopharyngeal until every sinus smoldered in ash and dripped fire from my nose. My brain squirmed, seared in its folds unable to differentiate pain from ecstasy. The almond shaped clams devoid of their protective shell-coverings looked fleshy and naked swimming in the milky sauce of garlic and red pepper. I coiled a dripping pasta strand around the kernel and sucked them both into my mouth. This time the heat curled down my esophagus, sending a fever over my chest baking my breasts into firm mounds. My thighs quivered as the boiling sauce seemed to pool in my pelvis area before slithering down my legs to encasing my feet.

I don't know what gluttonous obsessions drove me on. In one hand I held forkfuls of flesh burning pasta in the other hand a goblet of soothing wine. Pain and pleasure so closely linked. Perspiration beaded on my brow as I looked up to see the gentle fatherly waiter winking at R. saying, "...take her...take her home now."

Our limbic system totally surrendered to the heat of the night, so much so that when we gathered our bags, we left the precious map behind. But the gods and ghosts that walk the streets of Rome looked kindly and guided our pasta drunken bodies to the hotel without much extraneous staggering. We flopped onto the hard bed and slept without dreaming late into the next morning. The sun, laughing at our lazy bones, tickled our noses and routed us out of bed.

With last night's pasta and wine flowing through our veins we decided to skip breakfast and "Head out." Tour books? Check Cameras? Check Dictionary? Check Where to? Let's explore the coliseum. Is that here? I thought it was in Greece.

We started walking down "our" street toward "our" metro before we realized we had broken one of the great tourist commandments. We lost our map and as we shall see, Purgatory is Rome without a map. But being happy-go-lucky tourists we neglected our map-finding duties and set out empty handed. What is the coliseum anyway? Lets look it up in Steves' self guided tours of Europe's top museums. Hum page 347.

"You watch where we're going. I'll read. Oh, a huge stadium, colossal in fact, (coloss-eum) the teams were the Miami Gladiators verses the LA Lions or the Detroit Tigers, the Hippos or even the Crocodiles what ever exotic animal that could be imported. But no $100.00 per ticket. In Roman days the games were free, well nothing's free. The politicians used to buy votes this way. Wow, what a concept."

I was still reading and cross referencing our two guide books (in lieu of the map) as we emerged from the underground metro station. R. nudged my ribs causing me to look up from my studies just in time to see my self focusing Minolta and R's Cannon camera leap out of the camera bag, put their lenses together, and shutter, "Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute you!"

The two cameras then completed their mutiny and escaped across the street where they instantly (ha, ha) began snapping pictures of everything in sight. R. and I of course chased after them, shouting that they will be sorry for this but they had no discretion, the cameras kept just out of our reach, and snapped at everything: the darkened arched facade where the hookers use to hang out, (giving us the word fornicate) to the crumbling blocks at the rim of the Flavian Amphitheater (the coliseum's real name). They photoed the street vendors hawking rosaries and ice cream. They ran to the top of the park across the street to photo the coliseum from a distance, framed by the flowering trees. They photographed the children distracting tourists with cardboard signs while heisting their wallets.

6. Arch of Constantine

These crazy cameras capered around the Arch of Constantine snapping wildly, not even caring that it was Constantine, who 300 years after Christ, made Christianity the state religion. And then went on to smash the Israeli temple scattering the Jewish nation. The modern day Romans have a wedding custom of posing amongst the ruins in their gowns and tuxedos for their wedding album. My poor camera, euphoric, exhausted from the heat and excitement, lost it's heart to a professional Cannon. She crept beside the tripoded mammoth lens and tried to keep up, photo per photo until her little film cartridge whirled and buzzed and she began to reel. I gently scooped her into my arms sat with her in the shade reviving her with fresh film.

R's camera, unaware of the failed coup, continued to gleefully photo fallen Greek pillars for another hour. When it finally did take notice of its captured compatriot it surrendered with out a fight. Besides, it too needed rest and fresh film. With the cameras flailing against their restraints, R and I tried to maintain direction without the map but, wild eyed from the camera chase and tourist adrenaline, when we came upon a gate, we just threw a few lira at a guard and bolted through the turnstile. Wow! look at this stuff...a time warp, it felt like we just walked into a pastoral painting. You know the ones with cows and beautiful milkmaids amid fallen, overgrown, triumphant arches.

"Quick, look in the tour book."

"But how can I if we don't know where we are?"

"Here, I'll sit by these two square little ponds and look through the books until I find a picture that looks like those three standing pillars... And you keep those cameras under control," I said.

By now it was about two in the afternoon. We hadn't ate or drank since last night. All the other tourists, as well as merchants, were taking their midday nap behind cool hotel walls. The sun blazed on my head and shoulders, everything was still, the Roman rubble that laid around me sparkled, like a giant photograph developed on glossy paper. Even with all this lightness, the air draped heavily around me, weighing me down, making it difficult to move.

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