We take a tassì to Sognando Firenze B&B; Nicoletta greets us. The room is wonderful with soft yellow daytime light.

Technology Sidebar: Compact fluorescent light bulbs are nearly universal in Italy. Where you could imagine a romantic restaurant or hotel room lit for decades by the soft incandescent light of 40 watt bulbs is instead illuminated by hot white CFL’s. I imagine Europe will regain a bit of its legendary old world charm when they move on to full-spectrum LED’s.

We walk along the river, staying in the Oltrarno (“across the Arno”), a stone’s throw from the Old City. Lunch at Ricchi in Piazza di Santo Spirito is unspectacular, and when we go inside to pay, a hundred or more dirty plates and glasses are piled on the bar. For the first time in Italy, I feel taken; disrespect for the turistas. It takes a long walk down quiet, ancient, narrow side streets before I shake the experience and begin to enjoy Firenze.

It’s 4pm. We don’t have reservations for the Uffizi Museum, but walk there anyway. The line is over an hour long.

I walk past hundreds and duck into an office. “You can go in now with a reservation,” she says. “Cuanto?” “€15 for each.” “Due, grazie!” We spend €4 more per ticket than the turistas waiting endlessly.

The Uffizi is wonderful: Michelangelo, Rubens, Caravaggio and especially Botticelli. It has been in existence over six centuries, acquiring collections and receiving donated artworks, outlasting mortal threats including the flood of 1966 and the car bomb of 1993.

The walk back to our B&B is long; we walk through a couple streets we should have avoided in hindsight, but it was better to continue through than turn back.

A brief siesta, then a late dinner. Hosteria d’ Bricca had good online reviews, we try it. It is sublime. An insalata with spelt, rocket (arugula), tuna, olives and tiny marinated pearl onions. Then chicken cacciatore like it supposed to be – succulent chicken baked with black olives and a spicy, cayenne-infused olive oil with only a hint of tomato. It is decidedly the opposite of the American version with it’s canned tomatoes and dry, boneless super-chicken. We ask Daniele about his art; he joins our table. We vow to return.

The Colosseum is, well, colossal. Built from 69 – 86 AD by three successive emperors, it is easy to drop in and feel the Roman crowd chanting for gladiators, jeering defeated foes and enjoying naval battles in a flooded floor. Centuries ago, entrance was free, seats were assigned, tickets had numbers, entrances were separated by class.

Two metros to Piazza di Spagna, an A-list turista attraction. Fun for a bit, we wander along both sides of the river.

Sunset arrives in Piazza Navona. We enjoy art, Venice Beach sideshows and crowds. We find a doorway and sit. I have my strongest, deepest connection to this magnificent city.

[UPDATE: one week after we visit Piazza Navona, the southern Moor Fountain is vandalized. It’s a shame to see such a elegant work of art and important piece of history damaged. The performer in the yellow jacket above takes a break on the Moor Fountain.]

Dinner in Campo di Fiore, tiramisu for dessert. We get lost south of Trastevere, and then write until past two, knowing the next day’s travel to Firenze starts early.

I walk southeast and duck into Baylon Cafe, a chameleon that is alternately a cafe , bar, wine tasting room and gelateria. The typical Italian breakfast – a lovingly crafted cappuccino and croissant, for some reason called a pasta. The narrow streets of Trastevere are being systematically cleaned of detritus from the vast Bacchanalian evening the night before. A vespa pulls up, blocking a car while the driver pops in for her regular café. An Italiano in his seventies, white hair offset by his deeply tanned, weathered face, speaks with friends, hand gestures more subtle than a typical demonstrative Roman.

I cross Viale Trastevere, with its legion of Smart cars and Fiats, and cross the river. Sycamore leaves shed their coat in the first signs of fall on an otherwise hot summer morning.

I cross back over and find the centrifughe. Ali Sun is awake and showered as I present her a fresh juice.

We walk to the Old City, entering Camp di Fiore from the southwest corner. Restaurants are still closed; thankfully Rucceri is open. Ham hocks and wheels of cheese swing overhead. The three butchers behind the counter are artisans with decades of experience, if not generations. I use an unwieldy combination of English, Italian and Mime to build a picnic lunch of Milanese salami, sheep cheese, grilled melanzane, sun dried tomatoes and black olives. The vegetables – verdure – are drenched in a sweet, full bodied olive oil. €6,70. I’m delighted.

We take our lunch over to Piazza Navona and grab a curb in the shade between two restaurants shaking off the sleep from the previous night. Foot traffic is light, it’s not yet noon.

The food is heavenly. Is our perception colored by our surroundings? We agree that our lunch, plucked with oily fingers from butcher paper, may be the best we have ever had as we wipe our fingers on the paper bag. Rucceri in Campo di Fiore was that good.

The light colored buildings add to the contrast of the dark and heavy Pantheon on a bright, sunny day. It is our first experience on the turista A-list; we don’t stay long. Were we to visit on a quiet twilight evening, it may more intimately convey the weight of its millennia.

Fontana di Trevi, another A-lister. The overwhelming beauty and immensity of the fountain is overshadowed by the sideshow of turistas, suvineros, hawkers and grifters. We step into Santi Vincenzo e Anastasio a Trevi to escape the heat.

The walk to Musei Vaticani is nearly ninety minutes. We walk through rooms filled with countless busts, sculptures, tapestries, paintings, reliefs, frescoes and turistas, before entering the Sistine Chapel. The guards vainly shush the hundreds of people filling the cappella and only occasionally stop the prohibited photography. Yeah, the Sistine Chapel is pretty awesome, but it is difficult to connect with it as a place of worship and divinity.

Adjacent to the Vatican Museum, St. Peters Basilica is staggering in scope and much more solemn. A service is taking place, the Latin reverberating distantly in the cavernous cathedral. Catholics enter one of a dozen confessionals; a Franciscan monk walks by as we stand near St. Peter’s tomb in the center of the basilica. The building carries the feeling of pilgrimage, a destination as significant as Jerusalem or Mecca.

We stop for gelato and walk back to Trastevere with two UC students on a four month program at “UC Rome.” Lucky bastards.

It’s late. We eat at Popi Popi, the patio adjacent to the massive front doors of a beautiful church. Vino della cassa, ravioli, rigatoni d’arrabiacca, pizza con fungi, another bottle. We don’t have plans for the next day as the night comes to a close.

The drive was five Euro more than a taxi – well worth it to have a driver meet us, drive safely and deliver us intact to Calisto6, our bed and breakfast in Trastevere. Behind the graffitied door lied a hidden gem tucked in a building from the 1400’s.

As we drove in, industrial shifted to suburbs, giving way to gritty streets and finally opening into a wonderful neighborhood filled with life. Trastevere (“across the Tiber”) was formerly outside the city walls, and is not so far from the old city filled with turistas, but it is a world apart, even on first impression.

Our room is delightful, our private bathroom luxurious, our view over a sea of restaurants, Vespas and Fiats not quite expansive but filled with the sounds of the neighborhood.

It is siesta. Ali Sun embraces it. I join her. We wake at 5pm, freshen up, gratefully leave our bags behind. We walk through a maze of streets, alleys really. Each one with a restaurant, ten tables outside or maybe six; the ubiquitous row of mopeds. We cross the Tiber, enter the old city. Ancient narrow back streets may reveal a pharmacy, a jewelry shop or a homeless beggar with a baritone voice who might have been a late night DJ in decades past.

Emerging from a tall, narrow street, Piazza Novona takes our breath away. It is timeless and modern, ancient and vibrantly alive with performers, artists, turistas, ristorantes and surely an army of pickpockets who wear no uniform.

Ali Sun climbs the steps of Sant’Agnese in Agone; I follow. The church is weighty – far taller than it is wide, with a glorious frescoed dome, stained glass and heavy benches, perhpas mahogany. We light a candle for a dear friend.

Castel Sant’Angelo, also known as the Mausoleum of Hadrian, is imposing. We’ll try to see the interior before we move on. Perhaps its best as a mid-day tour, away from the heat of Roma in August. We follow the Tiber back to Trastevere, and dine at one of those lovely patios, enjoying grilled vegetables, melanzane di parmigiano and whole grilled sea bass.

Twenty hours of travel, nine hours in Roma, its a blessing to experience the magic, history and vibrancy of this city. I’m grateful and brought to tears by this opportunity we have opened.

He recorded under a variety of pseudonyms, as the lead singer and backup vocals, working regularly on local and coast-to-coast radio. “He was paid a flat fee each time he recorded, never royalties.” Here’s a link to a lengthy Irving Kaufman bio.

My dad sent me a link to the Library of Congress jukebox, which has a number of Irving Kaufman recordings (and probably a number of his pseudonymous recordings too). Here’s a tune from April 7, 1914, entitled “California and you”:

Start lightly searing to medium the albacore in a non-stick pan. We use Nutiva Organic Coconut Oil, but butter or olive oil would work fine, and give it a bit different flavor.

Meanwhile, in a large bowl, add a diced avocado, handful of cilantro, small handful of sliced green onions. Add a liberal splash of soy sauce, juice from a juicy half lemon, few drops of sesame oil and a few drops of rooster sauce.

Remove the albacore from the heat. Let it cool a bit. Chop it up, add it to the avocado mixture. Stir, taste, adjust seasoning. Spoon into center of serving tray surrounded by radicchio leaves and/or rice crackers.

Photo notes: albacore shown is 2/3 of a pound. The light was too low, causing every image to yellow. No natural light at all. (Project 365: Day 21)

photo credit bluefaqs / no original citation