I believe in God and I consider myself spiritual, but I don’t adhere to any particular religion. Be that as it may, I still wouldn’t have minded being blessed by the Pope. It couldn’t hurt, right? To receive a blessing, all I had to do was simply attend the ceremony like everyone else. I had something else in mind. There’s more than one way to get blessed by the Pope. And I figured out how. More on that later. Out of twenty-four people in our group, nineteen attended the Papal Audience. The agenda for the day was to meet after the Papal Audience, at 12PM, in St. Peter’s Square next to the giant obelisk. Then, we’d take a bus to a Sicilian restaurant for a cooking demonstration, followed by lunch. 

       At 9AM, I sat on the Spanish Steps and pretended to ponder my map while I covertly attempted to insert myself into the photo albums of complete strangers. I’d notice someone taking a photo of the steps and I’d casually stand up and stretch in order to be the central character in their picture. Yes, I have the maturity level of an eight-year old. 

       Rome is a beautiful, bustling, and wildly energetic city. You can walk pretty much anywhere you want to go. Plus, walking is the perfect way to drink it all in and find little gems that aren’t in the guidebooks. My plan that morning was to take a leisurely three-hour stroll to St. Peter’s Square. The stretch from The Spanish Steps to the Trevi Fountain has some of the best shopping in the city. You will share the streets with armies of parked motorbikes, shoppers, teenagers, old ladies on their way to church and the carabineri (state police) watching over it all. This area is worth a wander and is crammed full of stylish boutiques, marble courtyards and pedestrian-only streets. Via Conditti, which intersects the Spanish Steps, is the chicest shopping street in Rome. Prada, Gucci, Westwood, Cartier and Valentino all line the famous street. Like bees to honey, women in high heels, clutching expensive handbags were hypnotically drawn to stores selling the latest designer shoes. 

       The crowds had already amassed in front of the Trevi Fountain by the time I had arrived. Despite the throngs of tourists, it’s still a beautiful spot to rest for a while on one of the many concrete benches that face the fountain. This was the first time I had seen it during the day and it’s easy to see why it’s one of the most popular destinations in the city. The bright Italian sunshine made the marble glow and the water sparkle. I eventually pulled myself away from the fountain and checked the time. It was 10AM. So far, I had relaxed on the Spanish Steps and then relaxed some more at the Trevi Fountain. Combine those activities with my vigorous ten-minute stroll between the two landmarks and I decided that it was time to reward my Olympian effort with a much deserved gelato break. 
       On the way to the Pantheon, I entered a gelateria and asked for a small cup, half pistachio, half cappuccino. The proprietress held up the cup to confirm my decision. It suddenly looked like a thimble to me. Well, that certainly wouldn’t do. I mean, what kind of message does that send? I pushed my poor body almost beyond the limits of human endurance and in return, this is the reward that I get? To rectify the situation, I pointed to the medium cup. Before she reached for it, she looked at me questioningly, waiting for me to change my mind again. She’s apparently seen my kind before. With a sheepish shrug of my shoulders and a nod of resignation, I pointed to the largest cup. She laughed at me. I get that a lot. I paid for the gelato and went outside to continue my journey. Almost immediately I started to receive strange, almost startled glances from passerby as I walked down the street. After the sixth or seventh odd look, I was about to get defensive and holler, "What? You’ve never seen someone eat gelato at 10AM before? I've got low blood sugar! Dangerously low! I could die here! Do you want me to die? Is that what you all want?" but before I had the opportunity to share that outburst, I looked down. They weren’t staring at me. They were staring at my gelato. I guess I didn’t realize how immense the large cup actually was. 

       With both my arms proudly wrapped around my trough of gelato, I continued onward. I passed the Marcus Aurelius column in Piazza Colona, the Pantheon and eventually Piazza Navona before arriving at Campo de’ Fiori. Campo de’ Fiori is the oldest market in Rome, dating back to the fourteenth century. It’s also schizophrenic. Last night, it resembled a frat party. This morning, a traditional market was in full swing. In stalls and under awnings, there were rows of fruits, vegetables, fish, flowers, and earthy Roman characters shouting and hollering to drum up trade. At first glance it appeared to be just a haphazard jumble of canopies and vegetables, but there was an ecosystem that governed it. I watched people select spices, fruits, and vegetables from three separate booths, and each time, they paid this one shifty character that stood vigilantly in the center of the action. All the booths were lashed to his. I envisaged him as a sort of Spice Lord whose word was law everywhere left of the fish guy. 
       I was walking through the Campo when a man shouted at me with a vigor that belied his advanced age. "Carota machine."
       I stopped and stared at him. He raised his voice, this time approaching religious fervor. "Carota Machine!"
       I’m sorry, but any man who can speak with such passion about a food grater deserves my time. So, I stopped to see what this Carota Machine of his could do. If you must know, it isn't much to look at. It's hardly a machine at all. It's actually the kind of twisted metal you might find at the scene of an auto accident. What compels him to rub carrots, potatoes, or fish against it is a matter for philosophy to determine. The state it leaves the grated object in is so hideous; I don't know what you could do with the results. I bought it mainly so I could tell people this story. Oh, and get this. Instead of the change he owed me, he gave me quite possibly the most ineffectual juicer on the planet. I bought an orange at the market and endeavored to manipulate it with "the best juicer ever" and it didn't juice for shit. Let that be a lesson to you. Never accept small pieces of plastic instead of actual money. 

       Between Campo de’ Fiori and the Tiber River is the famous Jewish ghetto. Much less crowded, the streets are very narrow and full of shuttered, overhanging houses. Passing through, I eventually reached the banks of the Tiber where I crossed the Ponte Sisto. Next to the high stone banks of the river, and underneath the drooping cypresses, I shared the shady path with bicyclists, joggers, and fellow pedestrians on my way towards St. Peter’s Square. 

       At ten minutes before noon, I arrived at St. Peter’s Square just as the pope was being driven off in his Pope Mobile. The square was packed solid and security was high. Thousands of people had assembled to see and hear the Pope, and to satisfy their spiritual needs. Followers brought items such as rosary beads to the Papal Audience in order to have them blessed by the Pope. Since it would be impossible to have the Pope do this on an individual basis, instead, when he blesses the crowd, the blessing also covers everything in St. Peter’s Square. It’s an all-encompassing blessing. When I processed this little tidbit of information using my own personal brand of distorted logic, this is what I came up with. If the Pope blessed everything in St. Peter’s Square, that would have to include the water fountains, right? By association, any water flowing through said fountains would then be summarily blessed. To pass that blessing on to me, all I had to do was fill my bottle at one of the fountains and then gulp down the cool, refreshing holy water. Which, now that I typed it out and read it, kind of sounds like something you’re not supposed to do.

       We went to a Sicilian restaurant in nearby Trastevere for lunch. One of the first things that the owner of the restaurant told us was that there’s a big difference between Italian and Sicilian cuisine. I have no idea what the difference is. I’m sure he explained it because I saw his lips moving but my undivided attention was on the mouthwatering sights and smells of the four-course meal that the young chef was preparing for us. The cooking demonstration was an enjoyable addition to the tour and something I never would’ve considered doing if I was traveling by myself. In our American culture, we often look at dining as the equivalent of filling up at a gas station. Italians think of it as more of an art to take pleasure in. Three hours for dinner is considered normal. Even though it was a long lunch, I considered it a worthwhile complement to all the sightseeing we had done over the past few days. Plus, the food was fantastic. 

       During lunch, I sat next to Brian and Joanna, a young married couple from Long Island. Both very funny and quick-witted, I spent a lot of time talking to them during the tour. We enjoyed comparing and contrasting the differences and similarities between Rome and New York City. The frenetic pace of a big city, the congested subways and the crowds were all too familiar to us. We also noted that, while impressive, the collection of Roman artifacts in the Metropolitan Museum of Art now seemed rather quaint compared to the vast treasure trove we’d been privy to all week in Rome. Brian is around my age and similar to me, has a sarcasm-first way of speaking. He also loves chocolate in any form. Well, “love” may be too mild of a word to use here. I won’t go as far as to say that he worships chocolate but let’s just say that at the mere mention of the word, his eyes lit up like a twelve-year old whose Ritalin just wore off. When I first noticed this reaction, I was a little frightened. Ok, deeply frightened. But then I realized that I could use his infatuation for my own personal gain.

       There are some sixteen paintings by the Italian master, Caravaggio, scattered around Rome. I knew that there were a few at the Borghese Gallery and two more at the Church of St. Maria del Popolo, including the grim but powerful Crucifixion of Peter, but I wasn’t completely sure about the locations of the other ones. I’m a big Caravaggio fan and so is Brian. I didn’t have the time to explore all the churches and museums that were purported to contain a painting, so I enlisted Brian’s help. Without him knowing of course. On days when I knew that we had free time in the afternoon, I’d approach Brian and casually say something such as, “I heard that there were a few Caravaggio’s at the Church of St. Luigi dei Francesi. Maybe I’ll head over there later. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll just follow the crowds of people since it’s right around the corner from the Pantheon and across the street from a sweetshop that’s known for giving out free samples of their world famous chocolate bars.”
       My subtle-as-a-sledgehammer approach worked like a charm. That evening, I’d get a full report confirming or denying the presence of a Caravaggio. Underhanded? Perhaps. But that’s how we do things where I'm from.

       Trastevere, whose name means “across the Tiber,” is one of the more authentic and characteristic districts of Rome. The buildings tower over you, and the area is full of narrow, cobblestone streets and wonderful small piazzas that seem to be hidden until you suddenly find yourself in the middle of one, next to a fountain, watching energetic kids kick a ball around. Robin led us on a walking tour of Trastevere, followed by a trip to one of the oldest churches in Rome, the Church of Santa Maria dating back to the 12th century. After admiring the brilliant mosaics in the church, many in the group elected to call it a day and return to the hotel but a handful of us decided to walk across the river to the Capitoline Museum. 

       The Capitoline Museum is the oldest public museum in the world. It’s split into two buildings that are separated by a piazza known as the Campidoglio. In a city that doesn't lack beautiful piazzas, the Campidoglio, designed by an aging Michelangelo, is one of the best. As you climb the grand staircase from the street, the beauty of the piazza becomes apparent. The tangerine buildings look magnificent against the sapphire of the sky. We entered the first building, the Palazzo Dei Conservatori, checked our bags and began walking around at a leisurely pace. At one point, I accidentally bumped a pedestal that supported a bust of Socrates. I received a harsh glare from the security guard standing a few feet away. “Well, it lasted two thousand years. That’s probably enough, right?” I said with a chuckle. She wasn’t amused. 
       To take a breather from the many remarkable exhibits, we went to the outdoor café on the roof and enjoyed an unobstructed panoramic view of the city. In the distance, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica emitted a soft green glow while the stars above twinkled under a cloudless sky.
       On the other side of the piazza is the adjacent Palazzo Nuovo. We utilized the underground passageway to enter the building that houses the incredible bronze Marcus Aurelius equestrian statue, the Capitoline Venus and in the courtyard, the fragments of the colossal statue of Constantine. We took one look at Constantine’s giant foot and like a myriad of people before us, immediately knew it was the perfect place for a group photo. 
       The highlight of the night for me was the Tabularium, or more specifically, the view from the Tabularium. The open-air walkway looks out at the Roman Forum, which is splendidly lit at night. I looked down with reverence at Rome’s oldest road, the Via Sacra, which bisects the Forum, and tried to imagine the triumphal processions and parades that took place here so many centuries ago. The eight of us leaned against the balustrade and silently admired the nocturnal view of the birthplace of Rome.