Bella Roma

My husband planned a trip to Rome for us as an extravagant gesture of gratitude to me for suggesting a  real estate venture to him twenty or so years ago which is now paying off well.  When he told me his motive--since he has often said that he did not really want to go back to places we know so well--he kind of teared up.  Yes, he wanted something that would truly thrill me, and this he did, and spent a lot of money in the process.  This latter feature, vulgar as it might be, turned out to be sadly enough an important and necessary part of the trip.  We both have traveled much in Europe over the past decades, both firmly convinced that walking about the streets of any city is the only, yes, the only way to acquaint yourself with the territory.  It helps that he speaks fluently all the major European languages and I at least can make myself understood even if I do not get more than the gist of what is being said to me.  He had to confront the increasing infirmity of us both, and chose to send us first class.  Seats that turn into a bed--that indeed is what separates the sheep from the goats.  We arrived at Fiumicino Airport as though newly risen from a night's sleep in our own bed.  Well, perhaps I exaggerate.  But we were rather well rested and our bodies free of the aches and pains that hunching up overnight in a coach seat always induces.  The Italian wheelchair people were as sympathetic and efficient as one could want, and of course those in wheelchairs get right through immigration.  And there we were ready to be handed over to a car and driver from the Hassler Hotel which he had also magnificently engaged.  It was the setting for our entire week: comfort, convenience, minimum stress, no exhaustion. Staying at the Hassler is--to use the hackneyed language of advertising--magical.  Perched atop the eastern edge of the declivity that was long ago formed by the erosion of the Tiber river next door to the landmark church called Trinita dei Monti which presides majestically over the famous Spanish Steps an elaborate stairway of many turns and platforms built of marble ascending from the piazza below, the Hassler is a throwback to an era of truly luxurious hotels.  Our Hassler driver presided over his car like an first class private chauffeur and once at the hotel, handed us over to one of the several uniformed and capped doormen whose attentions were as constant as they were entirely discreet. Our luggage was brought in and sent in its elevator to our room where we arrived after checking in.  The lobby and the other public rooms were done in wine colors and velvet fabrics accented everywhere by marble and mirrors.  I immediately felt that I was on the set of a major film about nineteenth century Europe.  We had anticipated this, packing suit jackets and long pants, rather than our customary jeans and Florida shorts.  This was the first surprise: to see so many persons in the breakfast room in shorts, young women in indiscrete short shorts, in this gilded setting, waited upon by an impeccable uniformed staff.  I was shocked, and with that knew that I  had turned into my mother