FLORENCE: January, 2003 (Part 2)

In Florence I wandered across the medieval Ponte Vecchio, which bridges the Arno River. Tiny art shops and clothing stores were crammed one after another on the classic Florence structure. In the setting sun, the view of lamp-lit houses and apartments alongside the riverfront was one of warmth. I smelled garlic and tomato emanating from home kitchens.

As I leaned on the ancient stone of the bridge and looked down into the calm water colored with ripples of light, I felt a sentimental pull to family. Whenever I saw a look exchanged between lovers, I missed William. This heart tug was a curiosity to me, a gentle reminder of companionship, partnership and friendship.

I wasn't filled with loneliness. To visit and to observe different parts of the world was all right by me. The sensation was one of floating in singularity, like a ghost. I liked missing William because I knew I could get to him in a train trip. If there were no one waiting for me perhaps I would have experienced profound aloneness.

I started to notice an interior split on this trip. My singular self, rubbing against the part of me that wanted to marry William. Marry William, I whispered over and over while studying the water. This was a different marry than the partnerships of my past. I used to see couples, old and young, bent to each other in serious talk or laughter in what seemed a married conspiracy, and used to believe they were acting. Putting on a show and faking it in public. Even with William's crankiness and my neediness I was beginning to glimpse a new reality. I was buying those couples and ending my cynicism. I was looking into the possible with fresh eyes.

I shivered in the Florence evening and moved on to find warmth in red wine and a dinner of tender chicken roasted in lemon juice. Ah yes, alongside a bowl of white cannellini beans coated in olive oil and topped with crisp pancetta. If there are people to look at, food to feast on, books to disappear into, and marble — for God's sake — marble and stone walkways, and if there's a man somewhere who's missing me, a fellow I have the privilege to pine over...what could possibly be wrong? Certainly nothing in Florence was amiss on this January evening.

The next morning I set out to find another friend, a fellow named David.

The David is only the David up close. In Italian cities and especially in Florence, there are replicas of this famed Michelangelo statue on every street corner or teetering in front of trattorias. He's on millions of postcards and in thousands of books, but I'm telling you: it ain't the David until you stand in front of the real gentleman.

This trip would be my second date with the man and he was in the middle of a major cleaning, surrounded by a partial wall and scaffolding. David stands thirteen feet high. He was sculpted between 1501 and 1504 out of a single piece of white marble. For all his brawn, David is nevertheless vulnerable. Poor David, since I last saw him, had been hurt. In 1991, a deranged maniac claimed he heard voices telling him to take a hammer and smash one of David's toes.

In the Galleria dell'Accademia, David's home, a long hallway leads to the statue. Lining these walls are other unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo. On my first visit in 1986, I dutifully examined these works while wondering where the main site was located. As my curiosity peaked, I turned a corner and sucked in a gulp of air.

Frozen in place, I tried to calm my heart and carefully, quietly...as though not to disturb anything...stepped forward. I stood awestruck for close to an hour as other tourists wandered around me. He's so real and yet carved in perfect stone. That is the genius. I'm not sure I even knew what genius was until David and I met. Every sinew in his arms, every muscle appears to breathe and have blood moving through it.

Starting in 2002, experts labored through the nighttime hours to give David his first bath since 1873. The statue had been covered in dirt and grime, much of it carried in on the clothing of his audience. It took a full two years to finish the restoration but many determined it was worth it. David now shone brighter and lighter and had a "healthy glow."

That was all well and good, but for me David glowed whether he was spotless or tarnished. I considered myself hugely fortunate to have had two visits with the man, and I was star-struck as my feet skimmed across the museum's floors to the exit. I landed on the cobblestone street still slightly dazzled.

FLORENCE: January, 2003 (Part 1)

The first time I traveled through Italy and stayed in pensioni, I savored waking to rich, dark coffee with foamy hot milk and a crusty chunk of bread served with butter and jam. Most pensioni included breakfast with their room rentals.

These years later, I was disappointed to find coffee machines in the dining rooms of the places I was staying at. These impersonal dispensers dribbled out caffeinated drink into plastic cups. On the side, guests could help themselves to a cellophane-wrapped pastry of some sort. An inedible and cheerless start to the day. I wanted Italy to stay exactly the same as I remembered but she wasn't cooperating.

I checked into a "Let's Go"-recommended pensione on my first cold but sunny morning in Firenze. The book mentioned a "delicious breakfast" but alas, it was also machine packaged. The room was tiny and musty and altogether dreary. A single bed with a thin mattress waited for me. I arranged another pensione for the second night and hit the street to get out of the place.

The guidebook did come through that evening, sending me into a lovely surprise for dinner. A small, working-class neighborhood restaurant filled with men at the end of their workday. White-tiled walls, small tables and a black-and-white floor. Black-and-white photographs of the city hung above the diners.

For the equivalent of a mere ten dollars I was served a meal of vegetable soup, rabbit cooked with spinach, and a full bread basket. Wine and water were included. Men gathered around tables in groups of four or five. They paid little attention to me, which was a good thing, but I couldn't help noticing the Italian custom of men going out and women staying in.

In the evenings,young couples met up in bars, but Sundays were for families. Entire families strolled the streets. The father held a ribbon-wrapped gold box from the panetteria, the wife alongside kept an eye on the youngsters and everyone exchanged greetings with neighbors. Only on Sundays would whole families gather in restaurants. I've been told tradition keeps Italian women running the home and Italian men running the street. As a woman on her own, I dined most evenings surrounded by men and wondered if this tradition would ever advance.

A tradition I hope doesn't change is that of the siesta. In Italy citizens disappear after enjoying a large lunch with wine. Shops close down, restaurants shutter, and folks nap. I like this. After a morning of sightseeing I spent my afternoons reading and snoozing. Eateries didn't re-open for dinner until seven-thirty, which left waning hours for museums, galleries or window shopping. Apparently, Spain is in a fierce wrestle to save its siesta tradition as Western hours descend on the workplaces of Madrid and Barcelona. This may well be the case in Rome, but smaller cities and towns still honor the sacred siesta.

ROME: January, 2003 (Part 3)

At the Excelsior I learned to stomach the curious glances from hotel staff as I paraded through the opulent reception area with my plastic bags of groceries or laundry (take that, overpriced hotel cleaning service).

Our January in Rome included nights pounding with thunder, lightning and rain followed by mornings of clear, crisp air in sunlight and a climate in the mid-fifties. I have never spent summer days in Italy and have no desire to do so. Winter is best for sightseeing without crowds or heat. I walked, bused or took the Metro every day.

Outside St. Peter's Basilica a life-sized Nativity scene stayed erected, as if the city were unready to call a halt to the holidays. I wandered through the cathedral and the Sistine Chapel, where Michelangelo's ceiling fresco had been completely restored to the vibrant colors of the artist's original work. The Vatican museum and its massive golden treasures made me think about a Papal rummage sale as a source of funds for all the sexual abuse lawsuits against the Catholic Church we keep reading about.

I jaunted over Roman bridges and into Castel Sant'Angelo, the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian and his family, now a museum with a fantastic view of the top of St. Peter's, the Tiber River and their surrounding environs. The sky, a brilliant blue under the warm sun, created the effect of having walked directly into a scene from a postcard.

I spent an afternoon in Campo di Fiori. Translation: field of flowers — and it is. A flower and vegetable market near Piazza Navona, the square is filled with restaurants, a fountain and outdoor cafes. I lunched on soup and salad while I people-watched. I have found that in design and fashion, Europe is a good two or three years ahead of the United States. I saw women in stiletto-heeled boots with sharp pointy toes and winter coats trimmed with fluffy fur-like boas. Styles we wouldn't see for a long time back home.

My days in Rome started with an alarm at eight in the morning. I walked William to the subway, then ambled about the city, sometimes up to seven miles in a day. Occasionally I had a workout in the hotel gym followed by a sauna. Very nice and very luxurious. I worked on my writing projects, took a nap, and found food for William's late dinners.

After two weeks of this schedule, I was anxious to get away to smaller Italian towns, and started planning my exit. William's work had taken on new pressures since Morocco. His workload, and stress levels, had doubled, and no amount of tasty pasta deliveries on my part could alleviate the strain.

I became an unwitting additional source of stress during his off-hours, peppering him with questions he was too exhausted to answer. I asked for computer help and he indulged my needs even though he was burnt as overdone toast. I cajoled, he missed the humor and ended up snapping at me. As delighted as I was to be in Rome with him, I wasn't really with him, and it was difficult to accept I couldn't make things better.

It is the nature of filmmaking to operate at a heightened state of tension. Escalated pressure is encouraged from the top, the idea being that the work is better, faster and more profitable as bodies accumulate under the strain. It is both a sick and exciting art form and it was taking a daily toll on us.

William would call me upon leaving the studio and I knew his trip home would take an hour — unless he got caught up in some last-minute details, when more unacknowledged hours would tick by. When this happened I sputtered and spewed my way around the hotel room until William arrived home, took one look and realized he probably should have called about the delay. Then I would take a very adult approach and burst into tears.

It was time to take a break. William didn't have time to worry about me and I couldn't do any good worrying about him,

ROME: January, 2003 (Part 2)

I couldn't have chosen a better location for William to be overworked in. His schedule was grueling. He would be working long, long hours while I traipsed and ate my way across the country, mile after mile, town after town. There was simply no way around it. One of us had to bring home the prosciutto, and one of us had to eat it.

And we were staying in one of the most romantic, prominent hotels in the city: The Excelsior, on the Via Veneto. This spectacular inn had acted as base camp for the affairs of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini and Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. William and I had a lot of kissing to live up to.

I taxied into the city, checked out our hotel room and hit the bustling streets still lit brightly in Christmas illumination. I picked a restaurant, ordered a glass of red and a bowl of spaghetti carbonara, a Roman specialty. I studied my Lonely Planet book and shivered with the giddy knowledge that life simply couldn't get much better.

Six weeks in Italy. I would spend time in Rome and take many excursions away from the main hub. After dinner I asked the waitress for an order of tiramisu to take home for my true love. A small token of thanks for getting me here...Italy...La Dolce Vita.

As elegant as the Excelsior was, as highbrow and rich, I needed to make adjustments for our lifestyle. I asked the bellhop to have the refrigerator in our room emptied of all snacks and drinks.

Tutto? He raised his eyebrows.

Si. I nodded sadly as if William and I were on a strict no-nuts, no-wine diet.

The next morning I walked William to his Metro stop, where he hopped on a subway car on an hour-long trip to the film studio. He claimed the ride had a pleasantness because the subway was filled with beautiful Italian women. Ah well, the guy needed something and I could hardly begrudge his visual treats.

Those weren't the only treats William discovered in Rome. He had never been a coffee drinker but when introduced to the local cappuccinos he became a convert. Every day, as he arrived on the studio lot, he stopped at the coffee bar and for seventy-five cents (take that, Starbucks) picked up a creamy, dreamy espresso treat.

I found my own little caffeine bar on the street (take that, overpriced room service) and stood (cheaper to stand; they charge extra to sit at a table) reading a morning paper, sipping foam and nibbling on a cornetto pastry. Then it was off to the market, where I filled my backpack and two grocery bags with water, juice, wine, fruit, yogurt, nuts (take that, hotel fridge).

Inevitably I would realize I bought too much when I faced the steep Spanish Steps at the end of my shopping journey. William usually arrived home hungry by ten-thirty each night. Our hotel room was just a room, not a suite, and it had no microwave or stove. So I had to improvise.

The marble bathroom not only housed fluffy giant white towels but lovely linen cloths, which I laid across our king-sized bed for dinner service. Every night I spent in Rome involved a search for take-out food. William would come through the door to a glass of wine and pizza, or Chinese, or broiled chicken with salad and little balls of fresh made mozzarella. Sometimes I dished up poached salmon and green beans or room-temperature lasagna. Luckily, William's an easy-to-please diner.

It was on these location stays that our day-to-day patterns of dependency were set. At home, William takes care of all things technical: computers, televisions, phones. Getting internet access, fixing printers and programming remote controls all fall under his watch.

I take care of all things domestic: meals, guests, gifts, reservations, thank-you letters, shopping and scheduling medical appointments. Even while far away in some hotel room, we played the same roles. I regularly flipped out over a computer glitch and he calmly addressed the problem. He could happily survive on beef jerky and Pop Tarts were I not around to offer a vegetable or two.

ROME: January, 2003 (Part 1)

I stood in line with Jesus.

It's the truth. I arrived in Rome on the night of January 7 to find my luggage hadn't made the trip with me. So I ended up waiting in the "lost baggage" line, only to find the actor James Cavieziel standing behind me. Cavieziel, not so famous at the time, would find himself very famous a year later when Mel Gibson's bloody opus, "The Passion of the Christ," opened worldwide to great fanfare.

The "Jesus movie," as we liked to call it, was being shot at Cinecittà, the historic Italian film studio where William worked. His office sat directly above some dressing rooms, allowing him occasional glimpses of the stunning Monica Bellucci, who was cast as Mary Magdalene. The coincidence of having traveled to Rome, on Epiphany, the twelfth day of Christmas, only to find myself entrenched with Jesus at the airport while my boyfriend ogled Mary Magdalene was not lost on me.

Meanwhile, it was evening, William was working, I was exhausted and hungry yet beyond excited because I was in one of my favorite countries in the world, albeit without fresh clothes.

Seventeen years earlier, I had spent six weeks traveling in Italy and fell in love with the small towns, the food and the people: dark-haired and short like me. Using a translation book I threw together Italian phrases and rattled them off like a local, or so I thought. I was never corrected and no one looked askance as I negotiated hotel rooms and ordered meals in restaurants. I simply pretended I was Italian.

That trip had me fleeing a collapsed engagement, and this current trip had me gallivanting toward marriage. The juxtaposition should have made for entirely different moods when I found myself traveling alone in Italy but, oddly, they didn't. When I was wrestling with the disappointment of a breakup, Italy embraced me with her rolling hills, marble walls and ocean air. On this expedition, as I perched on a single bed in a convent or climbed high above a Tuscan town or wandered rain-soaked streets in Florence, she gave me hope for the future.