Chapter 6: Roman Holiday

PAUL

We got up early the next morning. We were planning on a walking tour of Rome and even though the longest stretch between stops was no more than a half mile we knew that it would take the better part of the day to hit all the sights. Janey was wearing her Indiana Jones gear, which I see every time we go exploring. The outfit was pure Janey. It is a loose safari shirt over a t-shirt and skin tight jeans. and if she had not fucked my brains out the night before I would have been lusting after the incredibly delectable mounds hidden under the pockets.

She has worn the same outfit every time we go adventuring and it is an endearing statement about how she feels about these explorations. Janey topped the whole thing off with a pair of Orvis hiking boots, which were so opposite the usual 4 inch heels that she wears when clubbing, it was obvious that she was serious about today’s expedition.

Janey is the history nut and she was dying to experience Rome in its entirety. Hilley was in her Italian National Team warm-up jersey and the same kind of painted on jeans that Janey wore. Except Hilley had her running shoes on, and she was draped in camera bags. Her perfect athletic body was something that men would clearly not ignore. But she was radiating female athleticism rather than sex object.

The first stop on the tour was the Spanish Steps. They are only 800 or so yards from the hotel and I wanted the girls to see them. They are built into the rise of the Pincian Hill. They only date back to the 18th Century but along with the Trevi Fountain they have come to represent modern Rome. That is because they have been featured in so many movies, songs, and posters.

The steps themselves have the same effect that you get when you see something in real life, which you have seen in hundreds of pictures. You feel like you have been there before, but you know you have never actually witnessed the real thing. Even that early in the morning the usual collection of students, vagrants, and punks was lounging on the steps.

Every head turned to follow our progress down the steps to the Piazza Di Spagna. I didn’t fool myself into thinking that they were looking at me. I turned right at the bottom and walked the ten yards to Babington’s Tea Room. I wanted an English breakfast. That place has survived two World Wars and Mussolini and it is legendary for the cultural types and politicians who like to frequent it.

After fueling up on my favorite meal we continued the “English in Rome” theme by walking the 30 yards past the steps to the Shelley-Keats museum. Both Shelley and Keats died in Italy. Keats shuffled off “this mortal coil” in one of the rooms of that actual house. It has the most complete collection of artifacts related to both Keats and Shelley and I knew that my literate and romantic wife would be fascinated. I gave them 45 minutes to look around while I sat on the Spanish Steps and imagined what that particular place must have been like in its heyday of the 1950s and 1960s.

The Steps were first popularized by the Audrey Hepburn movie “Roman Holiday” but they have appeared in so many movies since then that most of the current generation probably thinks that they are located somewhere in California. As I was sitting there a rather attractive young woman came over to beg some spare change. I am sure she targeted me because I am clearly old and rich and she was a pretty young thing, not because of my own good looks.

I gave her a couple of Euros and asked her what she was doing in Rome. She proceeded to sit down next to me and tell me all about her boyfriend problems; starting with dropping out of the American University because of him. I knew she was spinning me a yarn to get more money. But her youthful beauty reminded me a little bit of Hilley. So, I handed her a hundred instead.

She looked at me like she was wondering whether I just wanted a blow-job or the whole nine yards. I told her to get lost with my blessing.

JANEY Paul had given me the fucking of my life and I could not go to sleep after that. So, I put on my wrap and went out to sit on the huge terrace that looks out over the City. I know we spent an incredible amount of money for the place but it was worth every cent for the view I was getting. I drank Pernod and visualized what I was seeing.

We were high up on the back of the ancient Quirinal hill looking out over the Field of Mars. The view was toward the City, across the time-honored space reserved for drilling the legions and toward the old Servian Walls, which demarcated classical Rome.

The modern City was lit up in front of me with the Vatican and St. Peter’s clearly visible on the horizon. I thought, “We and the ancient Romans are very much alike.” I took another sip and thought about how much Paul and I have done together, how many places we have seen as husband and wife, and how much I loved him. With that thought in my mind I went back toward our room eager to be rested for our big adventure. I know that Paul does the historical stuff mainly for my benefit. But there are times when he is as engaged as I am and tomorrow was one of those times.

He is not even remotely interested in, or in touch with, the big picture of history, and the lives of the people who have gone before us. But he is a connoisseur of intrigue, skullduggery and political shenanigans and we were going to the place that practically invented all of that stuff, the Roman Forum. In some respects, he was more eager than I was to stand in the very spot where bribery, assassination and general rabble rousing was the established order of business.

We walked down to the Spanish Stairs first. We had decided to walk all the way in order to get a sense of life in the Rome of classical times; where taxis and hired cars had not yet been invented. We could have done it by litter, cart, or horseback if we really wanted to get around Roman style but with the walking, we had slightly less chance of being run over by the ferocious Roman traffic.

I had seen the Hepburn-Peck movie that got the mystique of the myth of the Spanish Stairs started and frankly it looked a little down at the heels. I think the reason behind it was the various denizens of the place, who were lounging on them like stray cats. I could feel hungry eyes following me down every one of the 135 steps.

We ate at Babington’s which I was well aware of, since I buy some of their teas over the internet. Paul is not a gourmet but he loves English breakfasts and that was why we ate there. Then he turned me and Hilley loose to explore the house that John Keats died in.

I studied computer science and business because I wanted to please my daddy but my first love is classical studies and literature. And there is no more tragic figure than Keats, who was a genius as a writer and died at age 25. Keats spent his last half year in Rome vainly hoping that the weather would help with his tuberculosis and he is buried in the Protestant Cemetery under a tombstone that only says, “Here lies one whose Name was writ in Water.”

Of course, because his works made him immortal AFTER his death EVEYBODY knows who lies there but it is pathetic in many ways that Keats died thinking what he thought. When we emerged from the museum Paul was just getting up from his seat on the Spanish Stairs. He had been talking with one of the street rats, a girl who would have been pretty if she had had her hair washed and wasn’t wearing tattered jeans and a grubby too large t-shirt. He looked at Hilley in a super loving fashion as he walked up. I wondered what THAT was all about.

HILLEY I was relaxed after fingering myself to a very satisfying climax. I was incorporating everything I had overheard, while listening to my mother, into my overall conclusions about the sex act. I know I will never be the woman that she is but I want to learn everything I can from her.

My mother radiates female sexuality in a way that no other woman I have ever known has. I know that Ada is a sexual being because she keeps producing babies. But her sexuality seems to be mainly devoted to motherhood. I have no interest in having a child and so I think that whatever Ada teaches me would be a blind alley. My mother on the other hand clearly knows the secret of being a woman and she enjoys sex for its own sake. I want to know everything she knows in that respect.

We were going to do a historic tour of Rome tomorrow and I was excited because I feel more affinity with THATt culture than I do with anything that went on for 1,600 years after its fall. I was ready to go the next morning after a good night’s sleep. Bastet wanted to come with me but I told her that the traffic would annoy her. She hissed, “Yesss it probably would. I will just ssstay here today and look for sssssomething to kill.”

We were going to walk from site to site in quarter mile increments all the way down to the Roman Forum. That place was ground zero for the Romans and it was the one location I was most interested in but there are several things to see that would give us perspective on Roman life, starting with the Spanish Stairs.

I am not really interested in the stuff that old people, like my parents, are interested in. But I am aware of the Spanish Stairs because of a classic movie that I particularly liked called, “Roman Holiday.” I am a bit of a princess myself and so I identified a lot with the Audrey Hepburn character.

Walking down the steps I was aware that there were a number of skinheads, Goths and neo-hippies watching us. My mother and dad were oblivious. But those are the trash of my generation and I know how to deal with them. They want you to look away when they meet your eye and so everyone who stared at me got it right back with a raised middle finger.

We ate at a place that had apparently been around for 125 years and which served English breakfasts. My mother wants me to be a refined young lady. I am willing to go that route in most things but I like the hearty feel of one of those breakfasts no matter how lower class they are and so daddy and I stuffed ourselves.

He had arranged for Mother to get a special showing at the Keats museum. I am a fan of the Romantics, like her. But it was mainly just letters and other things that had no meaning to me. I am a scientist first, last, and always and I need things in the physical universe to study. My mother on the other hand got all teary eyed at the symbolism of a genius dying young. When we finally got out of the place my dad was talking to some slut on the steps. He handed her money. I thought, “Oh My God Not Here!” Then he did the metaphoric equivalent of patting her on the head and walked affably toward us.

Unfortunately, I got it. He is a total sucker for any young girl who reminds him of me. How he could equate me to THAT little hooker was beyond me. But I know what motivates it; his absolute love for me.

PAUL We walked the short distance over to the Trevi Fountain. Unlike the Spanish Steps that place has an association with ancient Rome. The original fountain was fed by the Aqua Virgo Aqueduct which was one of the eleven aqueducts that watered the classical City. Trevi is huge, almost 90 feet high and the main basin is double that in circumference. The fountain is so embedded in modern culture that people who see if for the first time often gasp with recognition. That was what I heard from Janey.

Tourists are not allowed to walk around in it like Anita Ekberg and Marcello Mastroianni did in La Dolce Vita. But it is still the fountain that you throw a coin into. So, all three of us turned our backs and threw a Euro coin backward over our left shoulder with our right hand. Having done that, we knew we would return to Rome but I had a different legend in mind.

There is second romantic ritual associated with the Trevi Fountain. The fountain that is on the wall on the left side of the fountain complex is called “The small fountain of lovers.” According to the legend, couples that drink from it will forever be faithful to their partner. I knew that I didn’t need to have tradition on my side, with my infinitely loyal wife. But I thought the gesture was worth the effort so we trooped over there.

I produced a little folded up paper cup that I had been carrying in my pocket and we sipped a drink together. Hilley was photographing it like a paparazzi on crystal meth. Janey demanded the cup which she slipped into the leather satchel that she was carrying. There were tears in her eyes. Hilley must have filled up an entire SIM card.

I could tell that Hilley was not particularly impressed by the romance, or even beauty of the Trevi fountain. But it is interesting enough with all of its baroque curlicues and carving that any artist worth their salt will want to immortalize every angle. That was what Hilley was doing. She has turned into quite the master of the art of photography and her pictures are good enough to be exhibited somewhere.

I remember that she was fascinated by the gallery in Berlin when she was eight and she has constantly developed her skills since that time. We would have normally taken a cab at this point since the walk over to the Capitoline Hill and the Forum area would have taken too long. But Janey had been dying to visit the Pantheon which we could see just to the east, only 600 yards from the Fountain.

I am in awe of the place as an engineer. It is the largest free standing concrete dome in the world, which would be enough of a distinction if it were designed and built in this Century. But the building I was looking at was actually built 19 centuries ago. It says on the front of the building that “Marcus Agrippa built this.” That old boy had built something in that place but the structure we were looking at was actually built by Hadrian a hundred years later.

Agrippa was a pal of Augustus Caesar’s and most historians think that the Pantheon and all of the other building projects that sprouted up on the field of Mars during that era were actually designed to make a statement about the end of the Roman Republic.

At the time the Field of Mars was the empty place on the edge of the City where the voting for all of the offices in the Roman hierarchy took place. So, Augustus’s attempt to fill in the area with temples and other public buildings was his way of saying, “You won’t need these voting places any more, now that I and my family are in charge.”

Janey walked into the main space with awe written all over her body. She moved with such slow studied grace that she looked like a dancer moving out on stage to begin a ballet. She was looking up at the sun that was shining through the oculus. I had to admit that that 27 foot wide hole in the roof was a spectacular engineering feat. It lit the inside of the huge space with the sun’s rays and the rain that came in was carried away in drains. That actually kept the building cool. Hilley was snapping away, capturing the coffers in the ceiling, which were the architectural secret in constructing the thing.

The place has been a Catholic church since the onset of Christianity and the niches that go around the rotunda are now populated by Catholic icons. The original occupants were the various gods of the Roman pantheon, hence the name. In the 7th Century Boniface IV ripped out all of the old statues and anything else he could melt down into bullion, including the covering of the roof. But basically, the Pantheon looks pretty much like it did in the time of the historian Cassius Dio who was the first to describe it.

JANEY I had asked Paul what he was doing with the girl who he was talking to on the Steps. He told me that he felt sorry for her because she reminded him of Hilley. I didn’t want to tell him that he shouldn’t feel sorry for every cheap street hustler Hilley’s age. The one he had been talking to would have been pretty if she had been groomed. But she obviously had chosen life on the streets over whatever more constructive alternative might have been available. And she looked like what she was - a Roman whore.

Paul rescues dogs, cats and any other critter that comes into his orbit. In fact, if it were possible, he would probably spend all of our money trying to ease the lives of the destitute. It is one of the things about him that I love the most. But the boy has no common sense and he does not understand women.

I have no mercy for women like that. I understand that women consider any male legitimate prey, being somebody who is used to getting her way by flaunting her dimpled smile and her giant boobs. The fact that my husband had just handed a hundred euros to a cheap slut with a sad story is a perfect illustration of how stupid men can be about that “hooker with a heart of gold” tripe.

Then, as happens often with him, Paul DID manage to come up with one of his romantic gestures that reduce me to tears. We walked down to the Trevi Fountain from the Spanish Steps. I am not as big a fan of either of those things as Paul is. He only had old movies as entertainment when he was growing up. And I have a feeling that the romantic portrayal of 1950s and 1960s Italy in those films was what he was channeling in his desire to see those two landmarks.

They are not Roman by any means, being miles outside of the original city walls. The Trevi Fountain has that “Three coins in the fountain” legend that has been around since the 1950s movie. The little lady in my head chuckled and said, “There’s that movie motif again.” So, we did the silly thing where we tossed a coin over our shoulder into the fountain. I purposely threw mine over my right shoulder with my left hand to tell the world what I thought about THAT legend.

But one of the side fountains has its own legend. That is the little nondescript bathtub shaped fountain to the side of the Trevi that is called the “Fontanini degli Innamorati”, or “Lovers Fountain.” The legend has it that if a couple drinks from the fountain together they will always be faithful to each other.

There is a more extended version that is even more poignant. It says that a girl whose man is leaving for war should bring a new glass to the fountain and if the two of them drink from it and then shatter the glass the man will return.

I saw a soldier, and his girl go through that ritual as we were walking up. He was dressed in full Bersagliari uniform, plumed hat, and all. They carefully picked up the shattered remains of the glass and sadly walked off in each other’s arms, her to go home and him to whatever international hotspot he was being deployed to. It brought a tear to my eye.

Paul and I don’t need a legend to cement our eternal faithfulness but we did the same thing from a little paper cup that he had brought with him. That romantic gesture was so touching I actually DID cry. I demanded the glass for my scrap book and Hilley took a million pictures.

HILLEY My dad is a very strange man. If you look at him, he looks like an extremely rich, arrogant, and condescending person. I think it is the way he smiles that causes that impression. The human race, with all of its foibles, amuses him. So, his mouth is constantly arranged in a rather wolfish totally sardonic grin, one side higher than the other. It looks like a snarl of contempt but it is actually him smiling.

He has a Nordic look that is appropriate of course, since he is mostly German and Swedish. He has a long German nose and because he is big, he tends to look down it when he is looking at you. Now that his hair is snow white the contrast between his deep water ocean tan and that closely cropped white hair leaves the same impression as a James Bond villain. And of course, those icy blue eyes only add to the cold blooded Nazi image. That is on the surface, however.

Underneath, he is the softest hearted, most sentimental slob I have ever known. He adopted both Buster and Athena, just picked them up off the streets. He loves my mother in a deep and profound way, which is the only way I will settle for in any man I marry. And he loves me as much as he does my mother. We have always had a special bond. I don’t know where it came from but he has always treated me like an equal rather than a child, or a girl.

While I was growing up It was probably easier for him to treat me that way than it was for my mother. That was because my mom was responsible for discipline and daddy was responsible for fun. But I always knew that he would be on my side no matter what and I always knew he would protect and defend me to the death.

His canine partner Buster actually DID almost lose his life defending me and I know that Buster was just an extension of my father. My dad is also a total soft touch for any girl who reminds him of me, no matter how slutty the little bimbo might be. I should probably be insulted that he would even think about equating me to an Italian street whore. But he is just that kind of big sentimental lug.

He dragged me over to the Trevi fountain which was of no interest to me whatsoever since the water show at the Bellagio in Vegas is much more impressive. It was a tourist trap plain and simple. But I was interested in the rococo decorations and I got a lot of isolated photos of the more interesting ones that I plan to publish online.

However, it looked to me like his real reason for going there was to share a drink of water from a little side fountain that was supposed to make you eternally faithful to your mate. Since I couldn’t imagine the two of them ever being UNFAITHFUL to each other it was a gesture, not a necessity. But he told me about the other legend involving soldiers going off to war

While I was there, a girl my age and her man, who was dressed in the uniform that their elite troops called the Bersagliari wear, went through THAT ritual. That one involves breaking the glass to seal the deal and as they forlornly picked up the pieces and walked off, I was thinking to myself, “Someday I will experience that feeling and it made me want to cry.”

The pantheon was a different story. That IS Roman, in the ancient Roman sense. As a student of physics, I was fascinated by the dome. It was built without modern machinery and it has stood in that spot for 1,900 years. The dome is a perfect parabola, much thicker at the bottom than the top. The parabola shape is aimed at utilizing the compressive force of the weight of the structure to essentially hold the concrete piers that comprise the dome in place.

I was trying to calculate the weight of each of the piers from the angle of the parabolic arc but I couldn’t get a clear enough look to do the actual estimation. So, I settled for taking pictures of the contents of the niches. The niches hold Catholic icons now. But they were originally designed to hold the statues of the gods that made up the pantheon.

One of the early Popes found the statues “idolatrous” and probably also obscene since most of the statues featured nudity. So, after disposing of the offending “idols” he then proceeded to load the niches with idols that he DID approve of. Needless to say, I find the world of men hypocritical at best. I think that women will improve things a lot when we eventually DO take over. I DID get some good shots of the dome and the oculus though and I intend to post them as soon as I got back to the hotel.

PAUL There was one place that was recently discovered that I wanted to stop at. That was a location which was once part of the front of Pompey’s theater in the Largo di Torre Argentina. As you see all over Rome, the Largo is essentially a square city block park area full of ruins. In this case those are the ruins of some of the outbuildings of Pompey’s theater. Those ruins are located a couple of blocks behind the Pantheon.

The Largo Torre Argentina is known primarily as a place where Rome’s feral cats like to hang out. But archaeological excavations dug up a ten foot circular structure that appears to mark the location where Julius Caesar was voted out of office by the knives of his compatriots. Of course, Augustus knew where his uncle was murdered and he built a shrine on the actual spot.

A lot of people assume that the murder took place in the Forum but in reality, the Senate was meeting in the Theater of Pompey that day, which was situated slightly outside of the city. The act itself involved a couple of ring leaders at the beginning but in the end, there were 23 stab wounds on a body that lay on the lower steps of the building, covered with blood.

The theater complex itself extends a couple of blocks west to the Palazzo della Cancelleria. None of the actual structure remains but a lot of the supports and other underpinnings, as well as some of the tangible walls are incorporated in bars and hotels between the Largo Torre Argentina and the Palazzo Cancelleria. Walking those 500 yards gives you an idea of how monumental that structure was and how rich Pompey must have been to build it.

Like a lot of things in Rome you can walk right up to and stand on the actual spot. The shrine is about ten feet square and the location is marked by an inscription. I stood and looked at it like I could somehow sense the chaos that must have gone on as the actual murder was taking place. But unlike my wife I don’t have those sensibilities.

Nevertheless, having spent way too much time involved in the backstabbing and bloody betrayals of the business world I felt like I could get in touch with how Caesar must have felt. I walked back a little fazed by the experience. Janey was looking at me with love and understanding. Hilley was looking at me like she was bored and couldn’t wait to get going.

JANEY Paul wanted to visit the place where Julius Caesar met his end. We walked out of the portico of the Pantheon and along the east wall down to a little park area with a lot of columns and broken down walls. That was the front of a complex that extended for a quarter of a mile to the west.

Pompey, the guy who built it, was the leading man in Rome having conquered most of the east. So, he had money to spend and there is nothing like building a giant theater complex to impress your fellow citizens. I see that all the time with my rich friends, who spend fortunes trying to outdo each other in the civic responsibility area.

They mainly fund buildings with their names on them, or endow research facilities. Paul and I spend ours quietly developing the capabilities of the world’s gifted children. It is quite a lot of money but our initial genius grant holders are already making names for themselves in every country in Europe. I suppose we could tattoo our names on the foreheads of those exceptional people, just to show who paid for it, but we decided a long time ago to leave self-aggrandizement to our friends. We simply seek to make a difference.

As Paul was wandering around looking for the spot where Caesar was murdered my phone beeped and I saw a text. It was from my friend Emma. I don’t know how to describe Emma and my relationship. We have been sidekicks for ages, since we were the two hottest girls on the Penn campus. She even toured with us ten years ago when we were setting up our Genius Grant Foundation. That was where she met her ex-husband.

But we have gone our separate ways for years and the last time I heard from her was after her divorce. She has a huge trust and settlement from her former husband, whose dalliances she was lucky enough to get pictures and recordings of. Since then, she has lived in various places around Europe trying to “find” herself. I had mentioned on my Facebook page that we were passing through Rome on our trip and even been foolish enough to mention WHERE we were staying.

Her text just said, “Here at the Baglioni, where are you?” I quickly typed, “Walking tour with Paul. Will be back around 3 o’clock, drinks?” Two seconds later I got “Wonderful, Brunello Lounge XOX.” Well! I knew THAT would please Paul ... NOT!

He was standing there with his hands in his pockets contemplating something. I assume it was the spot itself. I knew he would not feel the aura of the place like I can. But I also knew he was standing there because like all other world conquerors he had an affinity with Caesar; I mean what the fuck, half of the countries in Europe named their kings after the guy, “Kaiser”, “Tsar” whatever? So, I let him stand for a while. Walking back, it looked like he had made some kind of connection. I couldn’t keep the love off my face for what I know is the little boy that lives inside of him.

PAUL We contemplated taking a taxi down to the Forum because the walk is over a half mile. But the path down to there would take us up and around the Capitoline Hill, which is where Rome was supposedly founded and it was just too tempting to take the slow and scenic route.

We walked south from the Torre Argentina and skirted the Capitoline hill to the north. The Capitoline was where all of the famous temples were and even though it is the smallest it is also the tallest of the seven classic hills of Rome.

Due to extensive renovation and reconstruction over the 1,600 years since Rome fell, none of the ancient structures that were formerly on it remain. Plus, all of the temples up there were devoted to pagan gods, like Jupiter, Juno, and Diana and so their destruction was probably inevitable with the Vatican sitting right across the river.