You’ll quickly realize that it would take weeks to do justice to the staggering amount of artwork that is housed in this enormous museum. The grandeur of the galleries is simply overwhelming. There are works of art by virtually every famous artist since the renaissance, as well as a multitude of antiquities from various ancient civilizations dating back thousands of years. 
       An interesting sight that I wasn’t expecting to see was a guy slipping into a coma in one of the four Raphael rooms. His eyes just glazed over right in front of me and then he was gone. His tour guide, ignoring the apathetic expressions on the faces of her group sounded like she was in a hypnotic trance as she rattled off various dates and facts about the frescoes in a stale monotone voice. The poor guy stood motionless, either comatose or silently praying that he’d still be young by the time she finished her oratory of boredom and banality. When it comes to museums, a tour guide can make or break the experience for you. Robin did a fantastic job in leading us through profoundly beautiful art of every quality, while educating and enlightening us in an interesting and memorable way.

       In the sculpture garden, the Laocoon packed a wallop. The intricate detail and the fluidity of movement in the statue are incredible. The expression of agony, the rippling muscles, even the veins are represented with a near flawless accuracy. For me, it was the one piece that stood out the most from what at times was almost complete sensory overload. 

       Near the end of the museum is the Sistine Chapel, which you might have heard of. It’s that room with the big painting on the ceiling and where they lock the Cardinals up without food until they pick a new Pope. It's cool, there's even a cage for them. Michelangelo painted the famous ceiling between 1508 and 1512. You can’t sit or lie on the floor but there are benches along the walls. I grabbed a spot as soon as one became available and just stared in awe, trying to fathom the dedication of the man, who, on specially designed scaffolding, depicted the creation of the universe, the scenes of original sin, the ancestors of Christ, and a variety of Old Testament scenes. The guards in the chapel make a valiant effort to enforce the no photography and no talking rules but camera flashes and loud conversations still ebb and flow fairly consistently. You will need a chiropractor after your visit, but you can take breaks from all the neck craning to view Michelangelo's huge and foreboding wall fresco, The Last Judgment. The Last Judgment presents a cacophony of ideas from the dead rising up to face the wrath of God to the Christ figure, who appears to be unmoved by the torment surrounding him. Look for Michelangelo’s self portrait on the skin held by one of the martyrs. The huge fresco that covers one of the walls is only one element of a room that was so breathtaking that it left me feeling drained as I walked out of there.

       St. Peter's Basilica, Catholicism’s most sacred shrine, was our next stop. The cathedral has such great proportions that it looks much smaller from the outside than it really is. Inside, the opulence and enormity of the building is almost incomprehensible. Robin took us on a tour, touching on just a few of the countless highlights such as the Holy Door, the Papal Altar enclosed by Bernini’s magnificent gilded bronze canopy, and the statue of a seated St. Peter whose stone foot has been worn completely smooth by a procession of human beings long beyond numbering. At 3PM, Robin was returning to the hotel and offered to accompany anyone who wanted to go. I declined, opting to spend a couple more hours exploring the basilica’s cavernous interior.

       If you can look at the Pieta and then crack some jokes, something other than human blood animates you. Christ is small and childlike compared to Mary’s body. Michelangelo shows all the despair and misery that she is feeling as she watches her son slipping away from her. The robes of Mary are rich with details and creases, and the fabric lies in folds, and pools around her feet as she sits with the lifeless body of her son in her arms. The veins, muscle and sinew in the body of Christ are so lifelike that one can actually see minute wrinkles in his skin where Mary is holding him. The quiet sorrow and resignation of a mother who has lost her son in such a manner is apparent upon her face and her silent suffering cannot help but move even the most stoic of viewers. There is an audible quieting of people as they draw near the piece, as if they’re afraid to disturb the private anguish of this woman. I stared at it for fifteen minutes and had to keep reminding myself that a person made it.

       After completing my tour of the interior, I followed the signs down the stairs to the Vatican grottoes. They keep the bodies of the former popes there, honored by gigantic statues placed above their tombs. Bear in mind that you won't be able to walk back up the stairs that you just descended. In the interest of keeping tourist traffic flowing, you are sent past the tombs and the exit will bring you back outside of the basilica. Outside, I stood in line for twenty minutes before buying a ticket to ascend the 450-foot dome, which you can do either entirely by foot, or partway by elevator. Either way, you will be climbing many, many stairs, so I heartily recommend the elevator. The elevator lets you out at the base of the inside of the dome, which has a stunning view of the nave, the dome and the lovely mosaics that surround it. If you have problems with your feet, legs, or heart, you can stop here to enjoy the interior view of the basilica and then head back down. Or, you can make like Indiana Jones and continue your trek upward. 

       There are 320 steps to the top of the dome but it seems like more. As you get higher, you enter the constricted space between the exterior and interior dome (the interior dome provides structural support), and you actually have to lean in to accommodate the dome's curve. It gets quite narrow and may be distressing if you’re claustrophobic. Stick with it and you’ll eventually make it to a tiny circular staircase with only a rope hanging down the middle to grab onto should you fall. As I climbed, using the rope to steady myself, I looked up in bewilderment and wondered what was next. Would I need this rope in the next stage to swing across a pit of hungry alligators while dodging poison darts? Alas, the spiral staircase was the last obstacle to overcome. Once you emerge outside, the circular observation deck gives a superb 360-degree panorama of Rome that is worth every huff-and-puff step it took to get there. You can see the neighboring hills, many Roman landmarks, and the Vatican Gardens with their ornamental shrubbery and fountains. The width of the deck is narrow, further compounded by support arches that impede traffic flow. I waited patiently to grab an uninterrupted, up-front view against the railing's edge, where I enjoyed the cool, refreshing breeze and the spectacular scenery below. 

       Coming back down the steps, you'll arrive at an upper terrace area that allows you to walk out across the rooftop of the Basilica. After descending three hundred steps, it's a nice open-air breather. There is also a gift shop run by nuns where I purchased several postcards. I noticed quite a few congregations of kids that looked like they were on a school field trip. They were sitting on the ground, leaning against the short walls of the basilica roof. I found a quiet, sunny spot and did the same. One of the advantages of a seven-day city tour is that you don’t feel rushed. You have time to sit back and enjoy a really good moment when it comes along. Those are usually the times you’re going to remember most vividly when you reminisce about your trip. During that quiet, pensive hour, I concluded that there are few better places to write a postcard than sitting on the roof of the world’s most famous basilica on an amazingly beautiful day. 

       I mailed my post cards at the Vatican City post office in St. Peter's Square, and then I walked past Castel Saint'Angelo on my way back across the Tiber River. Dinner was on our own that evening, and since I felt that my blood was flowing a tad too freely through my arteries, I went to Filetti di Baccala, which is a small restaurant right around the corner from Campo de Fiori.  I was looking forward to trying the filetti di baccala (fried cod fillets) but first, as an appetizer, I ordered the suppli, which are battered and deep-fried rice and mozzarella balls. They’re sometimes referred to as suppli al telefono (telephone rice balls), because when you bite them, the melted cheese flows out in a long strip, like a telephone cord. You can call them what you want, I’m just going to call them delicious. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven after I took my first bite of their artery-clogging goodness. 

       Filetti di Baccala was one of the only places in Rome that I had a little trouble due to the fact that I don’t speak Italian. The waiter didn’t speak any English so I did my ordering by pointing to the menu and to the plates in front of the two gentlemen sitting next to me. Not sophisticated but it got the job done. 
      If you’re planning a trip to Rome, every bit of Italian you learn will definitely help enrich your visit, but if you only speak ten words like I do, don’t let that keep you away. While it's great to immerse yourself in the language, don't get frantic. You're taking a vacation, not a mid-term exam. A five-dollar phrase book will suffice. In Rome, you will have absolutely no trouble getting by with English only. Most of the time, people will speak to you in English simply because you don’t look like a local and English is the accepted language for foreigners of unidentified origin.  Along with the basics - “please,” “thank you,” “yes,” “no,” “hello,” and “goodbye,” one word that you should remember is, “scusi,” which translates as, “excuse me.” You’ll find it useful after you’ve just trampled someone because you’re looking up at the Colosseum and not paying attention to where you’re walking. It’s also utilized if you need to squeeze past someone on the subway or on a narrow sidewalk. I found that I said it most often when I needed to attract someone’s attention before asking him or her a question. Once I got rolling with this little gem, there was no stopping me. I scusi’d everyone and everything in my path. I even scusi’d a cat that was rubbing against my leg in the Roman Forum. Over a two-week period in Italy, I blanketed the country with a layer of scusi’s so thick it was like a swarm of locusts. 

       After dinner, I walked to Campo de’ Fiori and went to a popular bar, The Drunken Ship, for an after dinner cocktail or two. It was a little too popular that night. I opened the door and found myself facing a wall of people. The music was pumping and it seemed like a great time but it was a little too crowded for me. Not a problem. There are plenty of good bars and pubs in Rome. 
       I went to one a few blocks away and as I entered, I immediately liked the atmosphere. It was dark but lively, and seemed to be filled mostly with locals. Remember yesterday when I was talking about Phocas and how he was killed in A.D. 610? Well, I’m pretty sure that was also the last time this bar had its floor cleaned. Against the back wall, slumped in a chair, I saw an entire human skeleton. I think someone died one night and instead of removing them, the owners figured that the person would eventually turn to dust; blow away and that would save them the hassle. The place was just what I was looking for. I ordered a beer from the bartender by pointing to the tap and saying, “por favore” (please). Again, not sophisticated and it immediately labeled me as a tourist but so what? I am a tourist. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just made sure that I wasn't an obnoxious tourist. I know that my Italian language skills are on par with a retarded parakeet, but that didn't stop me from trying to communicate. I made an effort and found out that most people are extremely accommodating if you're just polite and respectful. 

       Halfway through my beer, I was approached by an attractive woman, around my age, in her mid-thirties. She was there with two of her friends, both females, who were at the other end of the long bar. She said hello, introduced herself as Angela and asked me my name. Now, I’ll try to keep this next part brief because it might not make much sense to you and even if it does, there’s still a pretty good chance it’ll make you seriously wonder exactly how many bowls of lead-based paint chips I ate for breakfast as a kid. 
       In the past, when I’ve been at a bar with my buddies, if I found myself in a conversation with a female that I wasn’t interested in, I’d give her a fake name. Chester. Chester McGillicutty. You see, I’ve never been good at getting myself out of conversations that I didn’t want to be a part of. Not wanting to be rude, I’d end up standing there and listening to the girl talk to me for way too long, which would inevitably send out the wrong signals. My friends always used to give me a hard time about it. So one night, a plan was hatched to help alleviate my predicament. Whenever my buddies heard me use the name, Chester, they’d know to intervene and rescue me. Unfortunately, as is often the case with these things, as time went by, it got completely blown out of proportion to the point that now, whenever I’m out with the guys, regardless of the situation, I’m Chester. Long story longer, fast forward to the present and I’m in a bar in Rome with an opportunity to pay homage to the enduring joke and to my buddies back home. It was perfect. Right up until the point where Angela asked me my name. I drew a blank. I couldn’t remember my fake name. So I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
       “Rick.”
       “Rick?”
       “Yeah. Rick. Rick Steves.”
       “Nice to meet you, Rick Steves.”
       So that happened.
       Angela told me that she lives in Australia, and that she was traveling around Europe for a few weeks with her two best friends. It was something they’d been talking about for years. She spoke extremely fast, had a mischievous twinkle in her eye when she smiled, and a playful laugh that lit up the dingy pub. Ok, now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that my girlfriend is 4300 miles away, which gives me free rein to start chatting up the ladies. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, yeah, pretty much. But despite that, that wasn’t my intention. If I were hitting on her, I would’ve thrown down one of my killer pickup lines like, “Hey baby. Here’s a euro. Call your mom and tell her you just met the man of your dreams.” 
       But I didn’t. I was just a guy at a bar having a couple of beers and enjoying the company of a fellow traveler. I motioned for her friends to join us. The more the merrier. There was an ancient jukebox, which spat out American classics from the 1970’s. Angela tried to get me to dance and I told her that I would rather not, if it was all the same to her. Of course this meant, "drag me on the dance floor immediately," through the bizarre prism she used to interpret my clear words. 
       I’ve always known that the only capacity in which I was ever meant to dance was for the entertainment and pity of others. I’ve done so on a number of occasions to great effect. Some people can be sexy when they dance. I can’t even be sexy when I have sex. I eventually gave in to Angela and as I was practicing my dance craft in earnest, it wasn’t long before I remembered my complete lack of rhythm. Seriously, I can hear the beat, I know when my pelvis is supposed to thrust and how my head is supposed to move, but it does not happen at the right time. Watch a Britney Spears video with the sound muted, and put on Pink Floyd’s, “The Wall.” Pretending that Ms. Spears is trying to dance to Floyd, adequately shows a similar rhythm deficit. 

       The ladies from Australia were a lot of fun and I ended up staying out much later than I originally planned. I’ll sum up the night like this. If you’re ever in Rome and you’re staying at a hotel and the concierge informs you that Rick Steves once stayed there, there’s a good chance it was the real Rick Steves. If you’re ever in Rome and you’re eating at a restaurant and the owner of the restaurant sees you reading a Rick Steves guidebook and proudly states that Rick once ate there, there’s a good chance it was the real Rick Steves. But, if you’re ever in Rome and you stumble into a dark bar a few blocks away from Campo de’ Fiori, and you hear a story about the time that Rick Steves was there, three sheets to the wind and flailing about like he was on fire, while singing, “Macho Man,” by the Village People at the top of his lungs, well, there’s a chance that it might not have been the real Rick Steves. Ahem.