I still feel sorry for the visitors who have promised friends, family, colleagues, neighbors, the hairdresser, the mail carrier and the supermarket cashier's aunt that they will bring them a souvenir. They go into total panic mode on the penultimate day and often also the last day.and then they still forget somebody "important."

I am not good at the eye-rolling technique. Note to self: must start hanging out with more teenagers.

I'd been to the Louvre probably three or four times previously. The first was pre-Pyramid, when you walked in and up the stairs past Nike. I was young enough then to believe in guidebooks' advice, so I arrived at opening and made a beeline for the Mona Lisa. Huh! That's it, all right. There were other da Vinci's to admire, and breathing room for all the wonders. I liked it very much.

This time, I had forgotten that I didn't want to go back, and Bob wanted to go, so I made reservations online at 23 euros each. We dawdled in the Marais long enough that we had to power walk the rue de Rivoli to get to the Louvre on time. Not leaving enough energy to do it justice, so that's on me.

Masses of people drifting aimlessly. Thousands of them. Acres of epic paintings darkened with time. Miles of corridors. Very few benches, and apparently no folding stools provided. Young staff already battle hardened into indifference.

Bob and I split up, and I found a way to the 2nd floor where I had never been. I stumbled upon Holbein's Anne of Cleves; seeing the original of something so familiar gave me a kick.

Finally, a long walk through the mandatory exit mall.

A view.


How it felt.


There she was, the luckiest of Henry's queens.

There qre still areas of the Louvre where you can be almost alone. But most people are not big fans of the Scandinavian painters, even though they are excellent.

Bob is a big fan of jazz manouche, plays guitar with a gypsy jazz jam, so Paris is the place for that.

All day weekends, La Chope des Puces in the St-Ouen flea market, just north of the Périphérique, hosts live manouche music. Very nice. Casual, usually packed. We had Vin chaud, enjoyed the sounds. The Puces market stalls were dominated by knockoff Levis jeans and black puffy jackets, but there's always tempting curiosities to see and buy.






Another night, he walked to Piano Vache, not far from our apartment, for more jazz manouche. He enjoyed that very much, socialized with fellow manouche appreciators. Someone pointed him to another venue the next night.

Chez Georges, also in the 6th, was a lot of fun for Bob, reminded him of The Cavern Club. The music was in a barrel vault basement, with excellent musicians. I think manouche on Tuesdays. Nominal cover charge.


Around the corner from Chez Georges, Bob located the spot in Midnight in Paris where Owen Wilson meets the 20s partyers.

Thank you, K. I was actually almost alone on the second floor. It's a little difficult to find.

To resume:

We loved the Musée de Cluny. Stripped down to Roman walls in places. Mysterious fragments of poetic stone. Medieval expressions of faith and of love. A sweet little café. A museum where you could linger.









The famous unicorn tapestry.

I especially wanted to see a Ribera exhibition at the Petit Palais, so we caught a bus that took us along the Seine. We alighted, walked across that beautiful bridge, and got close enough to see barricades and policemen in every direction. What the what? I was vaguely aware of an upcoming AI summit at the Grand Palais. Surely it wouldn't close the little one across the street. One gendarme suggested we could circle around to the right, so we tried that. We could circle, but it would not get us anywhere. Stumped.

AI is already sinister enough, without cordoning off a big chunk of central Paris. I officially hate it

Paris and Rome are very well known, so just a bit about the good old Eternal City.

We took the train. Tickets purchased on Trainline, I think. Total around 10 hours, with a short layover in Milan by way of Switzerland. Departed Gare de Lyon, grey and early on time at 0645 then quickly stalled behind an obstacle of some kind. Full and comfortable train, clean. I sketched a little German boy across the aisle traveling with his mother. He was fun to watch, was also sketching. When I complimented his drawing with my first semester German "Es gefällt mir," he said, "Deutsch!", his eyes widened. I do love a train.

The delay caused a schedule change, a hustle onto another track in Basel in three minutes only, not for the halt or lame. We threw ourselves into random seats just as it started chugging out for Milano.

It was rainy most of the way and very beautiful passing through Switzerland, along Lake Zug, Altdorf, past intensely green fields backed by snowy mountains, chalets, well-ordered farms. There's another, more scenic, route through the Alps, but this was plenty nice.Then high speed train from Milan past flat wet farm fields.

Finally Rome Termini. Have I mentioned Bob's inclination to rely on the kindness of attractive female strangers when alone in distress abroad? At least twice before, in Samois-sur-Seine and after he was alone and penniless after being pickpocketed on the Metro from CDG into Paris, it worked out just fine. But now I'm afraid he thinks the universe will always provide a similar angel. Even when with Long Suffering me who has done the research.

I had searched the payment method for Rome bus, and the routes to our Trastevere apartment, knew that we could use our phones to tap in. Unfortunately, we stopped at the Information booth to ask where to find the bus, and just to verify the tap in. Nice clueless Misinformation woman told us, oh, no, you must buy tickets at a tabac equivalent or druggist. So we're fruitlessly roaming the station, had finally decided to go downstairs to the metro ticket machine when a young woman heard Bob mention the word "Ticket." I will spare you the tedious details, but the two of them hurried ahead of me while I cried out, "No! That's not what we want!" Deaf ears. When we finally boarded our bus with tickets from the metro machine, people were tapping phones in with ease. I had gotten over feeling crabby at our apartment when I checked my email before bed and saw Chase Visa, asking whether I had charged 151 euros at Rome Termini. Credit card cancelation with all its hassles, though I had a spare.

If you are, or have, a gullible trusting Midwestern USA man, beware young woman with long dark hair who has nothing better to do then lead tourists all over one of the world's busiest terminals. I can't say with certainty that she was the culprit, but.

Along Lake Zug.


Milano station.

My Visa card in its little e-theft protective sleeve was missing, I mean. Visa wrote off the 150€, as they do. But still. Beware cute helpful women.

Our Trastevere Wondersuite apartment was near the H bus stop, a few blocks from the river. We liked the place a lot. Immensely tall ceilings, stylish 2nd floor, good windows, so little busy corner street noise. Convenience mart, cheese and meat shops half block away. Gelateria across the street that Bob popped into a few times and liked a lot.

Recommend within a few blocks of Via Luciano Manera:
--Bacco Bistro for coffee.
--Bar San Calisto. Outdoor tables, always buzzing, great prices. A NJ couple we met on the H bus said Stanley Tucci had featured it, but the patrons seemed mostly local. Across the street in front of Chiesa di San Calisto, a lively group of old men played cards.
--Ai Marmi for very local pizzeria. Also a tip from the NJ couple, very much a family spot. We sat where we could watch the guy with the pizza peel (I'm sure there's a term for his level of expertise) whip pies in and out of the open wood oven.

Not recommended:
-- Pizzeria La Boccaccia, where I chose to go a couple of square slices congealing behind glass, heated to lukewarm on purchasing. Oddly well-reviewed. We did not come to Italy to eat bad pizza.

Isola Tiberina was a fun way to cross the river on easy walk to the Capitoline Museum while Bob explored further afield. Wow, what a place. First, fortify with espresso at the 2nd floor cafe, with the views already elevated atop the Capitoline Hill. Too windy for the terrace. Next some of their treasures: a wonderful Velasquez portrait between two by Caravaggio, young John the Baptist and one of a fortune teller. Painting heaven for me. Downstairs, familiar ancient sculptures, like the 1st C BCE Romulus and Remus suckling the she-wolf. Boy removing splinter from his foot.

On the way home, Basilica San Nicola in Carcere. Lovely inside, with stairs down to ancient Roman ruins underneath.

One of the world's best cafe views.

On Isola Tiberina

Bedroom window view.

I can say this is a classic, and really mean it.

Lovely account. I'm sorry about the stolen card!

Lovely account. I'm sorry about the stolen card!

Thank you, Peg!

The guys play cards outside San Calisto Church.



Trattoria Cave Canem. Lovely place, lovely people, good food.


Queuing for espresso at Bar San Calisto.

Bob has musician's and birder's ears, gets annoyed if the wrong music is playing. At Cave Canem Trattoria, with its warm family atmosphere, we had just sat down to a Bob Dylan song when the playlist switched to 80's rock. Intolerable. As we started to leave, I told our server what the issue was. Sweetly concerned, good-natured, he switched to something more mellow and Italian. I got a tasty and peaceful supper, and could happily have eaten there the rest of the trip.

Last year I lost one of my perfect royal blue gloves, thin unlined leather from the Florence central market, and hoped to find a replacement pair in Rome. Not so easy. The internet suggested a wonderful glove shop near the Spanish Stairs, but it took a few passes looking for the address before I realized it had gone out of business, replaced by something more high-toned and commercial. Bob went on to explosre on his own and I meandered down a side street, happened upon an accessories store that had a beautiful cashmere-lined pair in forest green, on sale. Sold.

I don't get the Spanish Steps. Sure, Audrey Hepburn adorably ate gelato there in Roman Holiday. People drive cars down them occasionally and get wrists slapped. You aren't supposed to sit on them. As public staircases go, sure, they are grand.

We would have liked to visit St. Peter's basilica, and knew that getting there early was the trick. Bus 115 stops not too far from our apartment, switchbacks up the hill to the Vatican. Worth taking for the views alone.

We didn't get out the door early enough, so it was almost 8:00 by the time we got to St. Peter's Square. Already an immense queue. We didn't have the patience or strong desire. Anyway, on my brother's advice I peeked into random churches as I passed, found art and splendor behind seemingly nondescript doors.

This was mid-February, and Pope Francis was hospitalized about that time during his final illness. Sweet old guy.

The thrill of sitting illegally, I guess.