8. Michelangelo's Cats

Well, it turned out that the "block" happened to be the Piazza del Campidoglio, a Renaissance square bounded by three palaces designed by Michelangelo, now the official residence of Rome's mayor, offices and two classical museums. I hadn't realized that Michelangelo practiced architecture as well as painting and statuary. But even without the guide book we could have determined the designer. The tranquillity and harmony of the facades contrasted perfectly with the ancient castings of the Goddess Roma and the Rivers Nile on fighting steeds. They flanked Michelangelo's grand double staircase that lead to the street.

Still trying to find the front of the "big white building" we turned our back on the crooked stairway that lead us up the back side of Michelangelo's Campidoglo and regally descended the front grand stairway. It might seem strange to anyone that hasn't been to Rome that we couldn't go directly to the "big white building". It was easy to see, towering over all the other spires but the twisting streets and alleyways could make an old pile of fisherman's net look straight.

As we turned the corner, we were now barred by a "dig". A whole city block was roped off and excavated as deep as a cellar with artifacts scattered about. On top of the pillars and decaying arches lounged hundreds of cats. Not statues but live, milling around felines. Some played peek-a-boo tag chasing each other up and down the stairways. A trio fiddled around by themselves on a slab while a nearby pair twisted their tails in and out of a perfect loveknot. Others strutted and stretched taking turns admiring each other grooming their tangy nutmeg firs before snuggling next to the old granny cats who snoozed on the sun warmed rocks. I clapped my hands, the cats just ignored the intrusion. No matter how many photos we took, pebbles we threw or shouts we sent down into the dig, they refused to give us the satisfaction of seeing them distracted from each other and their serene lifestyle.

We were continually detoured, through out the city, by other such digs and feline displays. R. could see the adventure lust in my eyes fading again. "Let me carry both cameras," he said.

I gratefully let him lift what now felt like a 20 pound camera off my neck. I still lagged behind. It was obvious that I needed encouragement to put one hot swollen foot in front of the other.

"After we see the front of your "big white building" lets go back to the ice cream shop and I'll buy you the biggest cone they have," R. promised.

Stomach taking control of feet, I galloped ahead of R. taunting him with "slow-poke songs" until we came to the front of the elusive big building. Mountains of white and with draping marble decorations, the front of this looming landmark looked like a huge wedding cake. On the top shimmered a flame casting shadows on Italy's tomb of the unknown soldier. On either side of the "wedding cake" water falls sang to the mourners as it cascaded to shallow reflecting pools at our feet. Beautiful? Yes...but when it was built in the turn-of-the-century in honor of the unification of Italy and the nation's first king, Vittoril Emanuele II, the Capitoline Hill was altered and many ancient remains forever destroyed.

"Do you remember how to get to the ice cream shop, without the map it'll be hard to find," I asked timidly, afraid he'd say no and at the same time afraid he'd lie and say "yes" getting us hopelessly lost.

"Of course, it's just down this street and over two." He sounded confident, so sure of himself, was he lying? I couldn't tell. But he had saved me from the ghostly arms and fended off starvation with the breakfast-lunch pizza. He wrangled the cameras under control and encouraged me to press on so I wouldn't have to say, "I wish I had."

A slight blush came over my cheeks as I looked up into his brown eyes, and took his hand. We helped each other scramble across the speeding, traffic circle pausing safely on the other side to look back for a pattern. None that I could spot. The cars rammed into the circle full speed, honking, and scooting anyway they could to the opposite street and exiting apparently unmindful of the ever weaving motor scooters and busses.

"I can't take this racket. The car exhausts are making me sick, lets get off this central road," I suggested.

You would think by now we would have learned our lessen, but certain things that we grew up with can't be dismissed from our inner thought processes so easily. Things like square blocks. As soon as we stepped off the main road, we were instantly gobbled up in a maze of avenues.

"We'll never reach the ice cream shop," I said as big tears began to roll out of my eyes.

"Don't cry, It's just between these two buildings, I'm sure."

9. The Fountains of Rome

Emerged from between a narrow gateway of buildings, we came into a vast oblong piazza graced with three bubbling fountains.

"Richard, Richard, I know where we are." I was so excited that I forgot all about the ice cream. We're in the Piazza Navona, I read about it in my library book, "The Fountains of Rome," by Morton. I recognized it because the book said that it's an artist hangout and, "look at all the easels."

R. strolled from one artist to another inspecting their wares while I told him all I knew about the piazza: There use to be a Roman Stadium here. That's why it's oblong. And see the tall buildings lining the piazza? They're built on the foundations that held the seats. In the middle ages, bull-fights and tournaments were held in the ruins. It took half the book to describe the three fountains, but the most famous is the center one.

It's another Bernini called The Four Rivers: The Danube, the Ganges, the Nile and the Platae. Bernini, on demand from his patron Pope Innocent X, had to also somehow incorporate the Roman obelisk, (the one that's protruding from the marble figures), into the fountain. After they piped the water to the fountains a custom developed of flooding the whole piazza. "During the heat of August, the outlets that carried away the fountain water were stopped on Sunday evenings and the piazza was soon transformed into a shallow lake." Nobility would then drive their coaches into the water, splashing one another and often tipping over. It was mayhem with dogs barking, children laughing and scampering about. Cheers and shouts from the opened widows and balconies mixed with the neighing horses until the Piazza echoed.

R. stopped listening to me long ago. He was mesmerized by the portrait artists, some doing exact likenesses, some creating caricatures. I strolled around, lazily inspecting the other two fountains, "Neptune" on one end and "Four Seated Tritons" on the other. After a time, I realized that R. hadn't moved.

"Come on," I jerked his arm. "Let's get the ice cream." But he remained motionless like a stone, not even blinking. "Richard, wake up, please wake up," I began to shout but irritated bystanders glowered in my direction so I stood on my tip toes whispering, "Wake up!"

Nothing seemed to draw R. from his trance. I paced back and fourth ringing my hands, hoping no one would cart him off thinking he was a stray statue. Sitting on the edge of the fountain I remembered reading that Rome is called the city of fountains whose waters are still piped in by Roman aqueducts from different springs outside the city. Some of the waters are said to be haunted, some venerated. It was worth a chance. I leaned over, cupped my hands and filled them with the water from the Four Rivers; running over to R., I splashed his face and neck. He instantly woke up.

"Hay, why'd you get me all wet?" R. then looked at my worried face, ruffled my blond curls and smiled. "That's OK, it felt good. Let's get that ice cream," he said, as if he had been standing there only five minutes.

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