The Embrace of Morpheus

Rome: Wednesday, March 9

I am in Rome, lounging in my suite at the Hotel Portoghesi. In some ways, I can't believe I pulled it off---the concept, the funding, the planning, the lists, the coordination---all to give me a month in Europe after a two year hiatis.

Proud of myself? I am.

The casualty of this adventure, so far, is me. I ache like never before. I'm tired, so tired, from endless walking through terminals, and three days and two nights without sleep. I have a nasty rash in a strange place, from sitting on airplanes for over twelve hours.

But my mind is singing the Italy song. The sun on ancient bricks, on ochre walls with shadows of trees and vines; the well-remembered Roman cobbles, intricate patterns, missing stones creating the need for attention when walking.

As soon as I arrived at the hotel, having greeted Amadeo, the desk-clerk who has been here forever ("Si, madame, I remember you." Heavy sigh.), I shot down the street for my first coffee back in Italy, sitting outside in the sun. (Yes, there is sun!) Then, a stop at Volpetti's on via Scrofa, followed by a wine purchase at Vinaio on via Portoghesi. Finally, up to the top floor of the hotel to the Torre suite that I love so much. The rooms are really nothing special, but the terrace has gotten even better.

Within five minutes, my friend Mauro phoned to say he would be right over with the loaner cell-phone---oh yay! His buddy Paolo provides the ride, on a scooter; today there is a strike of buses and metro. We sit on the terrace, sipping tiny glasses of delicious and inexpensive white wine, catching up with our lives after two years.

Mauro and Paolo take their leave and I nibble on spinach and eggplant, a piece of frittata, a few morsels of roasted chicken from Volpetti's, followed by an easy two hour nap. Feeling pretty good, I decide to walk in the direction of Piazza Navona to find reading matter for my 'real' bedtime, soon to come. After three minutes, my body is screaming with aches and fatigue. Nevertheless, I manage to not become a traffic victim, to buy the IHT and sit in the enormous, important piazza for a few moments while the oncoming mist and drizzle usher in the dusk. Bernini's work still shines in the fountains there, surrounded by worshipers.

Now safely in my tower habitat, I feel the wave of Morpheus pulling me under, and I am ready to sleep for a long time and wake again to a very old place.