Not a good day. At 4:00 am, our closest friend of forty years, Harvey Chernoff, who had lived in Brookline, MA, died. Actually, it was a relief for him and everyone who loved him, since he'd been living in a vegetative state for several years, but still . . .
Our trip began at 4:30 am when our good neighbor, Margaret Brucato, who is an early riser anyway, picked us up for the trip to the airport. She then picked up our friend Gary and about an hour later deposited us all at the airport.
The trip with a layover in Atlanta went smoothly, but when it comes to air travel these days, smooth flight is an oxymoron. It was a relief finally to arrive in Rome. Our cab dropped us off at the flat we've rented for almost a week (Gary, who had joined the trip later, ended up at a nearby hotel). We settled in and headed out to Rome's main train station to check our tickets for our trip Monday to Florence, and then we walked what seemed like a dozen miles to buy tickets for Sunday to Domus Romanae, a popular 3-D tour of an ancient Roman villa.
Found it, but no: We couldn't buy tickets there. We had to go to a bookstore five or six blocks away. Who knew? When we arrived there, sore of foot, the ticket agent said: No, we don't sell tours in English anymore. Guess we'll never know how our ancestors lived. We looked then for Bus 87 back to our flat, but couldn't find it. We did find a cab, however, and Bob practiced his Italian with the driver.
The one and only highlight of our trek was a quick stop at San Pietro in Vincoli Church to see Moses, one of Michelangelo's last sculptures. It was spectacular including his two horns. A misreading of a Biblical passage had led the great man into thinking that horns, not rays of light, had emanated from the prophet's head.
About 6:30, our Tucson next-door neighbor arrived from Denver, and we all went out to a local restaurant. Great pasta, great wine, great time.
Our trip began at 4:30 am when our good neighbor, Margaret Brucato, who is an early riser anyway, picked us up for the trip to the airport. She then picked up our friend Gary and about an hour later deposited us all at the airport.
The trip with a layover in Atlanta went smoothly, but when it comes to air travel these days, smooth flight is an oxymoron. It was a relief finally to arrive in Rome. Our cab dropped us off at the flat we've rented for almost a week (Gary, who had joined the trip later, ended up at a nearby hotel). We settled in and headed out to Rome's main train station to check our tickets for our trip Monday to Florence, and then we walked what seemed like a dozen miles to buy tickets for Sunday to Domus Romanae, a popular 3-D tour of an ancient Roman villa.
Found it, but no: We couldn't buy tickets there. We had to go to a bookstore five or six blocks away. Who knew? When we arrived there, sore of foot, the ticket agent said: No, we don't sell tours in English anymore. Guess we'll never know how our ancestors lived. We looked then for Bus 87 back to our flat, but couldn't find it. We did find a cab, however, and Bob practiced his Italian with the driver.
The one and only highlight of our trek was a quick stop at San Pietro in Vincoli Church to see Moses, one of Michelangelo's last sculptures. It was spectacular including his two horns. A misreading of a Biblical passage had led the great man into thinking that horns, not rays of light, had emanated from the prophet's head.About 6:30, our Tucson next-door neighbor arrived from Denver, and we all went out to a local restaurant. Great pasta, great wine, great time.
