11/19 “The Yellow,” our hostel in Roma, was conveniently a few doors down from what we decreed the best pizza in town. For 6 Euro we split a liter of Italian beer and a big rectangle slice of artichoke and tomato pizza, heated upon ordering. In Rome, you choose the pizza you want and pay by weight of the slice. And it’s square shaped, not triangular.
The woman behind the counter was quintessentially Italian, straightforward and strong-spirited. She wore slippers, rolled her eyes at the customers in front of us, smoked a cigarette outside and told us what beer to drink- “You want that one. It’s nicer. Same price,” she said.
We chatted with two Australian girls, whom we would run into the following day at the Colosseum. They told us to go to Florence, and to buy the Italian boxed bread similar to fruitcake.
We walked around and Nick told me about Stendhal Syndrome, “a psychosomatic illness that causes rapid heartbeat, dizziness, fainting, confusion and even hallucinations when an individual is exposed to art, usually when the art is particularly beautiful or a large amount of art is in a single place.” The man who coined the syndrome, experienced it first in Florence Italy. Looking up at the beautiful white-winged lion statues and others of gods and goddesses, dripping in gold, I could see how Italy’s wondrous sights could make someone foam at the mouth.
11/20 We spent a while at the Colosseum in the late afternoon hour. It was strewn in good light and crawling with cats. We laughed at the realization that the cat-chase-bird event was the only Colosseum sport to exist anymore, in the arena once inhabited by lions, bears and gladiators. In it’s early days, Romans would even fill the arena with water.
I thought about the evolution of sports… the carnal, but well-padded nature behind football and rugby, the exhilarating risk of NASCAR races, the rowdy audience we witnessed at the USA/France soccer match in Paris. Euphemistic versions of war and predator vs. prey, still prevail as popular entertainment.
Outside of the Colosseum, vendors sell cheap figurines and the two hottest novelties… flexible camera tripods and strange squishy pig-shaped blobs that flatten upon impact with the ground, and then slowly reclaim their form. Ah, tourist traps. 
We accidentally found the Trevi Fountain. I recalled it from a number of teenage-girl-type movies in which the fountain looked so serene and romantic. In reality, it’s swarming with tourists who want to toss in change… one coin to ensure a swift return to Rome, two to meet your true love there, three to get married to them. According to our guidebook, the fountain collects 3,000 Euros a day which is used to subsidize a supermarket for Rome’s needy.
We headed back to “The Yellow” to claim our free complimentary drinks. Mine was aptly a Limoncello, a popular Italian liquor. Then, we got on the infamous Roman subway, bound for Nick’s friend Ale’s home. The subway has just two old lines, and is absolutely covered in graffiti. Gypsies stand by all the ticket machines to “help you,” but for a price.
Ale greeted us and drove us to his flat. A born and bred Roman, he teaches American literature at an Italian University and his shelves hold books by Flannery O'conner and his favorite- Tennessee Williams. Ale used to be a journalist and even interviewed Joyce Carol Oates, back in the day, for an Italian magazine.
He effortlessly cooked an incredible pumpkin risotto and zucchini frittata as we talked about the importance of good Olive Oil, always Extra Virgin.
Ale went to work at his desk on planning a film festival, after recommending that we watch Six Degrees of Separation. In the movie, one of the main characters is taken up on a scaffolding to The Hand of God in the Sistine Chapel, and gives it a high five.
We had mixed feelings about the movie, which we decided was convoluted with “meaning.” In essence, it was supposed to emphasize how we’re all just six degrees from anyone on earth… the Queen of England and aboriginal tribesman alike.
Traveling makes me believe it. The world feels smaller everyday.
11/21 After a slow Sunday start, savoring sunshine from Ale’s plant-shrouded balcony, we braved a post-Suday-mass crowd at the bakery, and took the bus and metro to the Vatican. We walked around outside of the Forum a bit, having just missed the doors closing for the day.
At dinner the waiter sensed our slightly-defeated spirits and brought us free cake. He told us the key to good Italian food is simple… start with olive oil and garlic. As Lady Gaga’s video played on the tv, he reminded us she was Italian and showed us photos, on his phone, of her uncle, a skunk-haired Italian who is fairly famous there.
We sat is the old flower market and made the long journey back to Ale’s. We said our goodbyes since we would be leaving before he awoke, and we left him with some mint julep bourbon balls. 
11/22 The Vatican museum is home to oodles of roman sculptures, but I found the rooms themselves to be the most impressive, in every direction you look. The floor is meticulously covered in mosaic. The ceilings are intricately painted. The walls are equally ornate. And the Sistine Chapel. Wow. We stood with our necks crooked up trying to imagine Michaelangelo painting such a canvas. Nick said he tried to escape, but was forced to finish. I can’t say I blame him for wanting to escape. I can’t say I blame the Catholic Church for not letting him. The awe is not diminished by the constant hyms of “silence” and “no photo” coming from the guards.
After a few hours of utter awe, we found some relief in the less stimulating room of pope mobiles and in a stairwell where we posed with an agressively adorable photo of the pope and a koala.
We arrived early to the train station bound for Florence. I waited at what we thought was the correct platform while Nick double-checked that it was.
“This is the wrong one,” he gasped, a few minutes before the train was to depart.
If we didn’t catch the train we would have to wait another two hours and get in to Florence late at night.
With packs on, we sprinted for five minutes, dodging dozens of more leisurely-paced people. We stopped twice to ask where the platform 2e was, only to find it past the end of the numbered platforms and tucked behind them, out of sight. As the conductor blew his final-call whistle, we heaved ourselves on board, panting.
After collapsing in our seats, in soreness and astonishment, we read the whole ride. I finished the Bhagavad Gida as Nick read Moby Dick.