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,
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