Boundary Waters Wilderness Canoe Trip, August '13

      This year's wilderness venture began on the Little Indian Sioux River and took us through Upper and Lower Pauness Lakes to Shell Lake, Little Shell Lake, Heritage and Lynx Lakes.  My friend, Jay Bartner, from Maine, joined me. 

The text below is what I wrote in my journal on the trip.  I've left it pretty much unedited.  I hope it brings the reader a little closer to the time and the place.  Enjoy the scenery.

    New Kevlar strips on the canoe work well.  I put them on with John’s help to cover exposed wood at the bow where fiberglass has worn off.  The added strength for bumping into rough shoreline and rocks is a bonus.
    Wildlife sightings so far:  turtles, blue heron, bald eagle over our campsite, muskrat/mink, loons up close.
    It is nice to be with Jay again.  A friendship that has endured thirty-eight years, most of them with a separation of fifteen hundred miles. 

A Good Friend and a Good Camping Partner

      Sunday, August 25, 2013    The Trip of Malfunction and Misfortune
    On our first day, the water purifier malfunctioned.  It is useless.  Our alternatives:  abort the trip or drink unpurified water from the lake.  Obviously we’re doing the latter.  Much easier.  Giardia?  Doubt it.  Time will tell.
    On the same day the camp saw I’ve used without incident for years refuses to unfold.  We forage for enough wood that can be stomped to pieces to cook our steaks and have two campfires thus far.  (I managed to fix the saw later, but it ended up too hot for us to want any more campfires.
    Day 3:  After I inexplicably miss on a half dozen easy tosses of the food pack rope over a branch, Jay takes over.  On his first toss, he gets the rope over the branch.  It is too close to the tree trunk, so he flicks the rope to move its position on the branch and in a one-in-a-million event flips the stone up and around to tie a knot twenty feet above the ground.  Hopeless.  As I write this, he is still trying to untie it.  It’s a good thing I brought two ropes.  I told Jay to try as long as he chooses and let me know when he’s ready to move on.  He is a dogged person, a “problem solver,” he says.  It might be a while.
    A thunderstorm last night, not too bad.  We moved to the south-facing island site we had our eye on.  We asked the family there yesterday when the were leaving and they said today.  So we were up early and ready.
    Yesterday we had a good long day trip through Little Shell and Lynx Lakes.  We had lunch on Lynx Lake at the two-hundred-eighty rod portage to Ruby Lake, then hiked the portage.  We paddled into strong but manageable winds back to our campsite.  A lovely excursion.  We had swim time and hammock time at the site.  A great day.
    We’ll stay at this site for our last three nights.  I heated some water and shaved in camp for the first time in at least twenty years, if not the first time ever.
    Tuesday, August 27, 2013    It is early morning, Day Four – the best moments of a good trip.  We are both up before the sun.  Hot pink wisps of clouds.  The lake is placid, not a ripple (and will remain thus for the rest of our stay).  Yoga and stretching and meditation as the sun comes closer to its arrival.  Few words are spoken.  Good morning.  Jay is as filled with awe as I am.  I move from my stretching spot where I open my body as I face the optimistic forest to the east to a rock where I can plant my leg for stretches.  I gasp as I look to the forest to the east.  In that precise spot, at that precise moment, a splinter of fierce orange shows in the dark fabric of a thousand trees.  I pause.  Seconds pass.  The vision passes, also.
    I move on to fishing, using the Flatfish that reminds me of my father.  It is a replica of one he gave me to use when we fished on Winnisquam Lake in New Hampshire almost sixty years ago.  Jay dreams of my catching a meal for us.  It’s not important to me, but I would do it.  I’m not an angler at heart.  I satisfy my need to cast a line into the cloud-studded water, to feel the firm action of the Flatfish squirming under the surface as I reel it in, taunting disinterested fish.
    Time for coffee.  Coffee.  Are there two syllables that can connote more sensual enjoyment?  Probably.  But still…  Jay is content in his hammock, his favorite spot.  Here I am, facing the still lake, sun warming my back, coffee almost gone, writing these words.  Pancakes are next.
    On Sunday we never left the camp.  We swam, napped, read, talked, swatted flies and then repeated the cycle.  A good day.  Hot.  We fell asleep on top of our sleeping bags.
    Yesterday we took another good day trip, north into Heritage Lake.  We trekked the sixty-rod portage and found ourselves what felt like a hundred years and a hundred miles from the present.

Portage from Shell Lake to Heritage Lake

    We paddled the large, long, narrow lake north to Heritage Creek where we had to get out and walk the canoe through a maze of rocks.  Then we paddled  some more to a spot where the creek shrunk to an impassable trickle.  Dragging the canoe up onto the shoreline, we hiked the two-hundred and twenty rod portage to Loon Lake.  It is not a portage I’d like to take with a canoe or a heavy pack.
    At the end of the hike, we were in for a shock.  We emerged from the forest to find a South Seas landscape, a sandy beach stretching a hundred yards to the north and the south.  Two magnificent white pines at the edge of the beach framed what would be our picnic lunch spot.  I shed the food pack and my clothes.   Into the water!  We air dried, ate lunch and enjoyed our newest little piece of heaven.  Barely discernible on the distant western horizon, a canoe drifted across our view.
    Wildlife:  At the beach, a huge black bird, as big as an eagle, bigger than a crow, flew overhead.  I don’t know what it was.
    Back at our camp, it the hottest day I’ve experienced since perhaps the September trip with John in 1998.
    End of the day, Tuesday.  Another lovely day.  The heat let up a bit.  We hiked the Sioux Hustler Trail in the morning.  Then we lulled about camp all afternoon.  Swim.  Read.  Nap.  Repeat.  Tonight I will stay up late to stargaze.  It will be a solo effort, unfortunately.  Jay conks out early.  There aren’t many good stargazing partners on these trips.  John, Bruce, Dave Craft were good for the late night venture.
    Jay borrowed from my bookshelf “On Writing” by Steven King and “The Widening Gyre” by Robert B. Parker and enjoyed them both quite a bit.
    Tomorrow we’ll head for home.  We’ll detour to see Devil’s Cascade.  We’re both looking forward to lunch at the Boathouse.
    P.S.  I hadn’t stargazed the entire trip until that last night, and I’m so glad I did.  I would have missed the magic of the black silhouette of the shoreline, the absolute silence, broken occasionally by the lonely call of the loon.
    “The Impossible Twenty-Foot High Knot” After an hour of trying to retrieve the knotted rope as I wrote and read, Jay succeeded!  He felled a twenty-foot sapling and stripped it of its branches to use as a pole.  It was not long enough, so he found another six feet of improvised pole and duct taped it to the tree.  Then he fiddled and fiddled and fiddles some more.  My reading was interrupted by the rock, still tied to the rope, landing at my side where Jay tossed it to announce his success.  All I could do was to laugh.
    And the other great story from this trip:  “The Improbable Naked Lady (Condensed)”  On Tuesday afternoon went to the shoreline to swim.  I slipped out of my shorts to skinnydip and then glanced over my shoulder to see a canoe headed directly at me, not thirty yards away.  I climbed quickly into my shorts and walked back up to the camp as they paddled by, a man in the stern and a lovely woman in a red bikini in the bow.  Usually, people passing so closely will exchange greetings.  They kept their eyes straight ahead, a certain sign that they had gotten an eyeful and didn’t want to embarrass me.  For my part, I wasn’t going to say anything.
    A few minutes later they returned, obviously looking for a vacant site.  I recovered enough to engage them in conversation and told them that we would be leaving this wonderful site in the morning if they wanted to claim it.  They thanked me and told me they would be at the site near the portage that we had used the first two nights.
    The next morning, Jay and I broke camp and were on the lake early, not another canoe in sight anywhere.  It was another lovely, calm morning.  As we neared their campsite, we intended to paddle close to tell them that the site was open.  We heard the man’s voice from quite a way out on the lake.  I complained to Jay about people who didn’t modulate their voices in the wilderness, sound traveling the way it does over water.  Then we heard the woman’s voice, also raised loudly.  Then it dawned on us that the couple was having a rip roaring argument.  They were really going at it.  I had never heard anything like it in public, so to speak.
    We decided not to approach the campsite, and we kept our eyes averted as we paddled by to give them their privacy, much the same way they had spared me my own embarrassment the previous day.
    As our canoe nudged the shoreline at the portage, I was startled by a cheerful voice over my shoulder.  “Good morning,” piped a vigorous female voice.  A canoe had come out of nowhere to overtake us.  Strong paddlers!  (Not our fighting couple.)  When they stepped out of their canoe, we saw two well-muscled, tall people.
    Getting over my surprise, I returned the greeting and said, “How are you?”  She said, “Well, better than those two.”  We all chuckled over the scene we had witnessed.
    Then the woman said, “The least she could have done was put some clothes on.”  I stared at her blankly; and she added, “She didn’t have a stitch of clothes on!  You didn’t see?”
    I looked at Jay and smacked my head.  No, we hadn’t seen.  So much for allowing the fighting couple their privacy.  I filed the incident in my brain under the bulging category of “Opportunities Missed.”  On this morning there would be no “tit for tat.”
    And the final malfunction:  We arrived back at the entry point, loaded our gear into the Prius and hoisted the canoe onto the roof.  We wrapped it with the two indestructible nylon straps.  Jay tugged on one to secure the canoe for the seventy-miles per hour winds it would endure on the return trip, and the nylon snapped!  (Okay, it was partially severed at the point that it broke, but it had endured for over two decades.)

Sunset on Shell Lake

Can one ever tire of sunsets?

Mountain Man

Small Beauty

  

Reflection

After a day of paddling

Italy '13 - Cycling in Tuscany

      I’m writing about our entire trip after the fact, which is a bit of a chore and not so much fun as keeping up with the journey as it unfolds.  So it’s a record of what happened.  Read what you wish.  Enjoy the photos.

       Carol and I arrived in Rome two hours late and were met by a VBT (Vermont Bicycle Tours) representative who led us and two other couples to a van which would whisk us out of Rome to Orvieto, the meeting point for our Tuscany-by-the-Sea tour.  The first thing we learned about our travel mates was that all six of us were retired teachers!

      We settled in at the Hotel Duomo in Orvieto, a medieval hill town and big tourist attraction, by two in the afternoon.  It was a lovely warm day.  Glad to be free after hours of confinement on a plane, we proceeded to walk and walk and then walk some more, taking in pretty much the entire town.  We had our first of many gelato treats and then collapsed into chairs at a café across from the Cathedral of Santa Maria Assunta (The Assumption of Mary) for a glass of prosecco and a beer.  A nice dinner of pizza and local wine at a lively outdoor restaurant brought our first day to an end.

(You can click on any photo to see it full screen.)

Saint Mary of the Assumption Cathedral, Orvieto

Cathedral Facade Detail - St. Luke the Evangelist

Ramparts of the walled city of Orvieto

      The following morning, Carol and I had an early breakfast and then walked into a foggy morning.  We covered most of the town perimeter outside the medieval walls, lots of steep up-and-down paths to get us in shape for the cycling to come.  We finished up with a tour of the cathedral, a fortunate afterthought because the interior of the church and the frescoes were stunning.

      At eleven, we met the rest of the group and our trip leaders, Marcello Moretti and Elena Fossati.  There were sixteen of us – six couples and two pairs of women traveling together.  It would turn out to be a very companionable group that got along together quite well and had lots of laughs over the next week.  Marcello and Elena have been leading VBT tours together for ten years, and their experience was evident over the next week.

      One couple, John and Jacque Baker, live in Media, PA, close to where I grew up.  Before parting at the end of the week, we agreed to meet and share a bottle of Italian wine on my next visit to Philly.  

      Carol and I were the westerners of the group.  Wayne and Cindy are from Pittsburgh; the rest of the group were all New Englanders.

Our Trip Leaders, Marcello (from Florence) and Elena (Milan)

      Then we were off in the van, headed for our first hotel, an agriturismo called Fattoria La Parrina.  Marcello explained to us that a law passed about thirty years ago allowed struggling farms to receive tax breaks by adding to their farming operations a hotel component to foster tourism.  It was a win-win proposition for everyone.  Farms that would perhaps have failed survived; tourism flourished.  The two agriturismos at which we stayed were lovely facilities on beautiful grounds.  Both were organic farms that produced all the food and wine that they set out on their tables.

Chapel bell tower, Fattoria la Parrina, our first agriturismo

      On the way we stopped at a medieval walled city, Pitigliano, noted for its Jewish section, Little Jerusalem (Piccolo Gerusalem). (The website talks about the centuries old Little Jerusalem.)   In World War II, the residents hid their Jewish neighbors from the Nazis, who punished the town by bombing the city hall, the synagogue and the police station.  Marcello commented that perhaps this was the first instance of precision bombing.  I thought it was another shining example of ordinary people helping one another in the face of evil.

Pitigliano

Pitigliano

Pitigliano

HOSE WINE 

      Fattoria La Parrina has a small market where guests can shop for delicacies of their fields and kitchens – olive oils, meats, wines and more.  This is where we discovered what we called hose wine (no, not house wine misspelled).  In country villages, residents often take their own vessels to local wineries and fill them with table wine from large vats.

  At the market, next to the vintage bottles of wines with beautifully designed labels and price tags ranging from five to forty euros, was a white wall with a hose protruding from it.  Behind the wall was a large vat filled with delicious table wine.  So we bought a liter glass bottle, inserted the hose and filled’er up.  Total cost for wine and glass bottle?  One euro seventy (two dollars and change)!  I have always said that common table wine in Italy and France is all you need and is far better than cheap American wine.  This wine reinforced my opinion that the simplest of European table wines can be delicious.

       Our first day’s ride of eighteen miles to Talamone might be summed up like this:  Cycle to the sea.  Sun.  Swim.  Sip.  Sup.  At Talamone we jumped off rocks into the Mediterranean and marveled at the buoyancy of that the salty sea that allowed us to float without effort.  We sipped cold Moretti beer and then walked through the small town, a playground of the rich, to a park high on a cliff overlooking the sea, where Marcello and Elena had prepared delicious al fresco lunch.  Food, beer and sunshine erased any inclination to cycle the eighteen miles back to the hotel.  Visions of lounging by the pool with a glass of wine and a book crowded out any thoughts of getting on a bike.  Half of us chose to ride the van back to the hotel, allowing the hearty souls to pedal back.

Two wheeling through Tuscany

Talamone, playground of the rich and a swimming and lunch spot for cyclists

      The vision came true soon enough.  It was lovely by the pool.  The water was cool; the air, warm.  Marcia found a fig tree near the pool and brought us sweet treats from its branches.  We sipped hose wine.  La dolce vita!  It was a day of firsts for me – first swim in the Mediterranean and first fig right off a tree. 

Our next day of cycling was one of our longer days, a thirty-three mile trip to Orbetello, with a stop at a lovely, secluded beach for a swim and some sunbathing.  To get to the beach we cycled through a beautiful forest of tall pines on a dedicated bicycle/walking path in public park land.  Marcello and Elena had told us it would be one of the prettiest days of cycling, and they were right.

On our way to the beach through a forest of lovely pines

Our reward for a long trek on the bikes

       Before the forest, we stopped at an agriturismo called Osteria Terra Etrusca, where we were served a delicious lunch, one of the best meals of our trip.  We had a stew of sausage and beans accompanied with absolutely the best roasted vegetables I have ever tasted.  Carol and I had stashed our hose wine in the van, and gladly shared it at the table.

Our Group at an al fresco lunch at Osteria Terra Etrusca,
taking a break from a ride to the Mediterranean.

      At the start of this day’s cycling, Carol and I were among the first out of the gate.  Shortly, I found myself in front of the pack on a flat country road, nothing in front of me but empty road.  I switched to the highest gear and flew across the countryside, alone, the wind rushing in my ears.  I wasn’t trying to outpace anyone.  I was just enjoying being alone and having to find my own way with no help of bright cycling jerseys ahead.  It was this way for maybe five miles or so, twenty minutes of heaven.

     We were shuttled back to the hotel for a little break time before returning later to Orbetello via van for dinner. 

DINNER AND MUSIC

Orbetello is a town that’s a little rough around the edges, but that didn’t stop us from having a nice dinner (pizza for Carol, mussels for me) at a sidewalk café and watching the crowds stroll by.  The half liter of house wine (hose wine?) was only three euros and went down well.  Afterwards, we joined the promenade.  On one quiet street, we were drawn by the sound of live music and thought we had found a bar with entertainment.  What we found was a local band practicing in a second floor room.  Through the open windows we could see musicians’ heads and the tops of wind instruments.  They weren’t real good, and the director stopped them several times.  We couldn’t translate his words, but the tone of his voice didn’t need interpretation.

ISOLA GIGLIO

The Island of Giglio

     Midweek we had a day off from cycling.  We were shuttled to Porto San Stefano, where a ferry took us to Giglio Island, a lovely small mountain emerging out of the Mediterranean, a place not to be missed.  We had the benefit of a guide for the day, Stefania, who escorted us through the walled village at the top of the mountain.

Stefania, our guide on the island of Giglio

      As we approached the port town on Giglio, we got a close-up view of the Costa Concordia, the ship that ran aground due to the malfeasance of the ship’s captain.  The captain is currently on trial, so he has not been convicted of anything; but to see this huge ship (larger than the Titanic, we were told) perched precariously on submerged rocks astoundingly close to the harbor and the shoreline makes me wonder what he was doing that night to allow this tragedy to happen.

The Costa Concordia.  Giglio Port is an easy swim to the left of the wreck.

After our tour of the walled town, we descended to Giglio Campese, a tiny beach town on the back side of the island for lunch.  Most of the group had lunch at Pizzeria da Tony, a classy and popular restaurant by the water.  Carol and I opted for take-out sandwiches from Tony's and cold bottles of Moretti from a beach shack while we lounged on beach chairs under an umbrella.  And while most of the group went on a hike with Stefania,  we remained lazily ensconced at the beach.

Denizens of Giglio Island

        The water quality here is astounding, and the area is officially recognized for the efforts to maintain high water quality.  I swam out to where it was perhaps twelve to fifteen feet deep.  I could look down and see individual rocks in the sandy bottom as clearly as if I were in knee-deep water.

BEACH FACILITIES, LOCAL STYLE

There was a guy in charge of our beach, Domenico, who saw to it that we had chairs and an umbrella (three euros each) and who showed us where the showers were.  The bathroom was another story.  For that, he showed us the way across the street to the basement apartment of the beach concessions manager, where we were free to use the facilities.  Quaint, to say the least.

FATTORIA DI MAGLIANO

      Our second agriturismo was newer, with nicer amenities and views of the Tuscan countryside to die for.  Our welcoming dinner was one of the best meals of our trip.  It was more of a traditional Italian event – several courses.  We had antipasti, followed by a memorable pasta and then the secondi – roast pork, heavenly mashed potatoes and veggies.  We had just filled our plates, all of us thinking that this was more than enough food, when the staff brought out huge platters of cinghiale – roasted wild boar.  Too much!  Too good to pass up!  Another glass of wine, per favore.

The view from our room, Fattoria di Magliano, our second agriturismo

Bookshelf, Fattoria di Magliano

Swimming pool at Fattoria di Magliano

      On Sunday, after visiting Fattoria Andreini, an olive oil mill, we cycled to Magliano, another walled hill town, small and charming.  We enjoyed strolling the ramparts and streets.  We found Ristorante da Guido, recommended both on TripAdvisor and by the woman at the tourist information office.   So, for dinner, while some folks opted to have a light meal at the hotel, Marcello and Elena drove six of us back to town, where we each set off on our own.
      At Guido’s, our first surprise was the entrance.  The restaurant was below street level.  We could look through big windows to see an inviting interior, but there was no obvious entrance.  The windows were about five feet and a few inches high.  One of them had a handle on it, so we tried it.  The door!  We ducked and entered, descending a couple of stone steps into the dining room, where a man who  acted as if he were in charge, grumbled something about no reservations and disappeared.  We decided that he was Guido.  He turned us over to a younger waiter, who saw to it that the atmosphere warmed up considerably from our frosty entrance.  We proceeded to have an excellent meal, well cared for by our young waiter.  Carol ate a delicious ravioli, and I fell once again for cinghiale and was glad that I did.  A good local red win helped it all go down, and then the best panna cotta I can remember eating finished off the meal.

On the ramparts at Magliano

House Detail, Magliano

      We wandered into the church of San Giovanni Battista in Magliano.  The eleventh century church was very dark.  As with every Catholic church in the world, there was a rack of votive candles.  In a tradition almost as old as the churches, Catholics place a coin in the slot by the candles, light one candle and pray for whatever need they have - the return of a sinful family member to a saintly life, the health of a baby, a happy marriage, relief from personal pain, maybe even prayers of gratitude for favors rendered by God.  Even in the oldest of churches, you find that the candles are electric, like the ones you might find on a table in a "candlelight" restaurant.  To hear the lonely rattle of your coin as it lands at the bottom of the metal box and then see the tiny electric bulb come to life is just a little surreal.  I only know this because I watched Carol drop a coin to light the lights.  I withheld my contribution until I found a church with real candles.  Then, as I always do, I offered a prayer of gratitude for my blessings.

CAPALBIO

Our last day of cycling took us to Capalbio, a town achieved by climbing and climbing and then doing a little more climbing.  After strolling the cobblestone streets and the stone ramparts, we found La Porta, an outdoor café with a view of the Mediterranean for lunch.  At La Porta, I had a traditional local dish, a thick, substantial, delicious vegetable soup.

Artwork by Niki St. Phalle in Capalbio
(If you go to the website and click on "The Cards," you can click on any thumbnail
photo and then drag the cursor over to the text. The photo will enlarge.)

On the ramparts of Capalbio, a good lunch under our belts.

ROMA

       In 2005, we spent a week on our own in Umbria after cycling the hill towns of Tuscany with VBT.  The hill towns tour is the tour to take, in my opinion.  Dramatic scenery.  Wonderful, beautiful, historical walled hill towns more than made up for the more difficult cycling.  And we really didn't have that much trouble with the cycling back then.  Now?  I wonder.

      While we were in Umbria, we considered taking a train to Rome for a day trip and wisely decided against it.  We knew that you can only do so much in limited time, and that we would have to save Rome for another time.  So we were pleased that our tour started and ended in Rome and planned an extra two days on our own after the bike tour.

      Two and a half days in Rome was enough for us.  The problem with Rome was partially our problem, how we went about it.  We wasted too much time trying to see tourist sites, which by and large disappointed.

      We reserved tickets for the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel on the afternoon that we arrived in Rome.  I wanted badly to see Michelangelo's brilliant ceiling, and I was not disappointed by his timeless marvel.  The problem was sharing it with a couple thousand other tourists packed tight into the chapel.  I wanted to be alone, to lie on my back on the floor and let my eyes and my brain absorb every detail of Michelangelo's masterpiece.  A couple of hours like that would have been heavenly (Michelangelo's intention?).

Vatican Museum

Vatican Museum

      On our arrival at our hotel, the Giulio Cesare, a posh place, a VBT representative gave us a little orientation to Rome and offered the option of a walking tour in the evening.  Several of us signed up and what a good choice that was!  To have someone lead the way (no referring every five minutes to a map) and pointing out interesting details of every church and historical building (which are seemingly everywhere you look) was a real delight.  The highlight of the tour was a visit to the Pantheon.

Night sky beyond the ceiling of the Pantheon

Fountain of the Four Rivers by Bernini

Viviana, our walking tour guide in Rome

      Our guide, Viviana, was an interesting person.  She was born in Argentina and studied history in university there.  She came to Rome over ten years ago with the dream of studying at a university and doing research.  The reality she learned soon enough is that there is little investment in study and restoration of the antiquities of Rome and precious little for research.   She stayed in spite of her disappointment and now shares her enthusiasm for the history of Rome with her clients on tours.

       The next day we took a taxi to our apartment in Trastevere.  The apartment, which we found on AirB&B, saved us hundreds of dollars and put us right in the midst of one of the more interesting neighborhoods in Rome.  The owner, Evelina Giacinti, showed us around (not too hard in a tiny, tiny place) and showed us all the idiosyncrasies of her place (quite a few per square foot).  Finally she showed us how the apartment key (four dead bolts!) and the front door key worked.  If anyone asked who we were, she said, just tell them we were friends of hers.  Do not, she urged, tell anyone that we were renting from her.  The other apartment owners in her building frown on that.  In any event, she added, we probably wouldn't encounter anyone.  Ha!

      Actually, encountering someone was exactly what happened.  The next morning I went out early to get some bread from the tiny grocery store at the end of our block.  Returning with the bread and some chocolate, I approached the front door.  An older man (actually a guy about my age!) waved me off.  He spoke as much English and I do Italian, but he managed to tell me that my key would not work.  The lock had been replaced overnight.  He was apparently the manager, and he was out there giving keys to residents as they left for work.  He was not about to give a key to someone he did not know.

      So I painstakingly tried to explain that I was a friend of Evelina.  We went inside together, debating the issue.  How, I asked, was I going to come and go during my stay without a key?   (Thank goodness he didn't think to tell me to get a key from my friend.)  At the mailboxes, he searched for her name.  Fortunately I saw it before he did and showed it to him, a point for me.  He was wavering, but still not ready to part with a key.  A resident, an elderly lady (older than me!) who spoke English, came down the stairs and engaged me in conversation when she realized I was American.  She asked where I was from and, when I told her Minnesota, she demanded that I be more specific.  When I said Minneapolis, she lit up with excitement.  "Yes!  Yes!  I know it!"  She had traveled to Rochester, to the Mayo Clinic.  We became instant friends.  This was enough for the building manager.  He made me write my name and address on the back of an old envelope and handed over a key.  I spoke my best molto grazie, said good-bye to my new friend and hurried to the apartment before the guy could change his mind.

The view from our Trastevere apartment

Rome Bookseller

Daily market, Campo di Fiori

Delights of Italy

      Armed with our new apartment key, some fruit and a sandwich, we set out for our walking adventure, our first stop the daily market at Campo di Fiore and then on to the Colosseum.  The Colosseum was another disappointment.  Magnificent as the Colosseum itself was, the crowds created a tawdry carnival-like atmosphere - throngs of tourists, vendors (water, scarves by the hundreds, pictures of Pope Francis), forlorn-looking men dressed in centurion costumes (your photo with them for a price) and men who appeared to be Buddhist monks in bright orange robes, levitating above the sidewalk and searching, like the rest, for the coins of people passing by.

      After the colosseum, the day turned into a little taste of Purgatory, because we managed to get lost constantly.  We could usually find where we were on our map, but we weren't quite so successful when it came to figuring out how to get to where we wanted to go.  So we walked and walked and walked, and got more and more tired.

Il Colosseo

Levitation, your coins welcomed

     x

Fence Detail, Rome

       Back in Trastevere, we began to recover from our long day.  After a cold beer from the alimentari storeand a brief nap, we set off for dinner La Tana de Noantri in lively, crowded Piazza Trastevere.  We met up with Cathy, Cynthia, John and Jacque for a fun evening.

Enjoying the Night Life in Trastevere

       By the last of our vacation, Carol announced that she was done with sightseeing.  I walked to St. Peter's Square alone and got in line to enter the Cathedral of St. Peter, the epicenter of the Roman Catholic religion.  It is impossible to overstate its size or the magnitude of the art treasures held under its roof.  It is close to impossible to overstate the numbers of people who stream through the church day after day.

      Afterwards, I had a cappuccino and returned to the apartment.  Carol and I spent the rest of the day at a leisurely pace, wandering the botanical gardens above Trastevere.

Symbolic Protector of the Church and Actual Protectors of the Church

Swiss Guard

Columns surrounding St. Peter's Square

"You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build My church."

The Dome of St. Peter's, Rome

      If I were to return to Rome, I would do things differently.  I'd ignore all the major tourist sites and the oceans of tourists that swirl about them, with vendors hawking their wares and pickpockets looking for opportunity.  I would read up in advance on interesting neighborhoods and head for them.  I would walk into every old church I encountered and admire the artwork.  Even better, I would save up my fun money before the trip and use it to hire a private guide to lead me through these interesting places and tell me things about the antiquities that I never knew.  The beauty of Rome, in my estimation, is its antiquities; and their significance lies in the stories they tell.  If I were to return to Rome, I would go for the stories, and I would make sure I heard them.