From the moment we landed in Rome until the moment we left, I was struck with how that city – and perhaps much of Western Europe – uses space differently from how we use it in the States. 

The first thing you notice are the many ancient buildings crammed together. In the heart of the city, the Coliseum, the Forum, and the Circus Maximus are all within walking distance of each other.  While they are “preserved,” they have not been renovated.  The Circus Maximus, for instance, almost resembles an abandoned park, except for excavations at one end. However, there is enough on view to recall the chariot race from “Ben Hur.” 

In our country, the Circus Maximus site would have fallen into the hands of developers and ended up being a trendy condo complex of the same name. It would have stood out like the well-known sore thumb, especially since there is a noticeable lack of super highrises in Rome’s central city. 

Automobiles are another example, not only because their drivers run them at breakneck speed or because there are very few stoplights but also because they are very small and can stop on a dime.  Both attributes are significant.  Rome’s streets are small and winding; parking is at a premium; fuel is expensive; and American style mechanical palaces on wheels simply don’t fit in.  Additionally, pedestrian walkways are marked by a series of lines on the cobblestones at various intersections.  Step into the marked area and all cars come to a halt, allowing pedestrians to cross. 

We tested this at the Victor Emmanuel monument which fronts a circular road. Due to experience in our own country we were timid at first.  But sure enough, cars halted.  It was a beautiful thing.  As time passed, we became bolder and even crossed streets just to watch the cars stop.  I wouldn’t recommend doing this at home. 

Finally, cappuccinos were markedly smaller than those served stateside.  Cheaper too. You could say it was about space, but perhaps it was about ambience as well. And maybe that was why we spent a lot of time in cafes when we weren’t out playing in traffic. 

 There is a television commercial I’ve seen recently where some guy asks little children if bigger is better than smaller.  They all agree it is, which serves the guy’s purpose for the product he’s promoting. I beg to disagree.

Today Vero and Patrick and I headed out on our own; the better to reconnect.  Vero and my other son, Keith, met when he was an exchange student in the late 1980s; when he came home she followed during various summers to spend time with us.  It’s hard to believe that was more than twenty years ago.

Vero and I have always been connected; she calls me her “American Mother.”  I return the favor and refer to her as my “French daughter.”  That’s how strong the bond is.  So today we left the others to their own devices to savor time together, to reminisce, and to build on the future. 

We headed toward the Vatican, although I’m not sure why.  Rain periodically forced used to retreat under umbrellas, but when we could we linked arm in arm. And laughed in French and English.  Patrick was patient with our connections, taking photos and being the gentleman. 

When we arrived at St. Peter’s there were cameras and journalists and satellites everywhere, all waiting not our arrival but the white smoke from the little chimney near St. Peter’s Basilica that heralded the election of a new Pope.  We visited the basilica itself and spent a couple hours there.  Then we headed for lunch on the other side of the Tiber River. As we dined, it seems the new Pope was elected.  

However we didn’t learn this until later in the evening, too late to return to St. Peter’s Square with hoards of the faithful.  Instead we watched Pope Francis’s first address via Italian television.  It was a thrilling climax to the day with the successor to Peter, the first Pope, coming to office.  Yet for me such ritual was overshadowed by the renewal of long time friendships that also stand the test of time.

We spent the day becoming acquainted with our little neighborhood.  Found a true Italian cappuccino café, a store that sold only its own handmade pasta, and another that specialized in bread. Visited the local farmer’s market which also featured a butcher and a fishmonger. It was all as quaint and charming as the guidebooks suggest.

Late in the afternoon Patrick and Veronique, our long time friends from France, arrived as did Andy, Kevin’s roommate from college.  The six of us chattered in a variety of languages with Kevin, who spoke them all, being interpreter extraordinaire. It just went to show that a good joke is funny the second and third time around. 

After a get-acquainted time in our flat, we ventured forth for dinner. My overriding sense of the day was that we were settling in, all of us present, eager to make our time together special. Some of us had long-time connections; Kevin and I for instance had known Patrick and Vero twenty-five years. He and Andy had been close for almost twenty. 

So the banter went back and forth, Italian and French and English, yesterday’s memories and today’s in the making.  Dinner was a polyglot. But eventually we bade goodnight to each other and headed to various flats, sleepy and contented. Perhaps that is Rome’s ultimate appeal:  you feel welcomed and nurtured even when the locals don’t speak English and it’s pouring rain and you’re tired of cobblestones. You’re still in the Eternal City.

As a rule I blog when I’m traveling.  It’s as much a diary of the trip for me as it is an update for readers.  But I didn’t tap a single keystroke the entire time we were in Rome, so I have no record of the adventure that started two weeks ago yesterday. I’m feeling as if something is lost.

So I’ve decided to do a 20/20 hindsight diary in the belief that the cream of memories will rise to the top for each day we were in Italy.  This does go against an essay I once wrote that the memory of something becomes less than the actual thing the longer you take to write about it.

No matter . . . here’s goes.

We arrived in Rome after sacrificing several hours to time zones and losing sleep in the process.  We’d flown from Chicago to Frankfort to Rome, arriving around 9:30 AM at Fiumicino Airport.  From there we found a bus to take us to the terminal in the heart of the city where we planned to get a taxi for the final few kilometers.  I was eager to be settled.

However, the taxicab driver at the train station that serves as a major transportation hub for Rome told us he and others were in a protest and it would cost five times the usual amount to drive us the final distance to the flat we’d rented.

You have to know my son to understand that he would never pay five times anything when he thinks he can find his way. I’m not sure I would have paid it either, but it did cross my mind.

Off we went to take the subway as close as possible to where we thought the flat was.  Lonna and I dragged our wheelies, while Kevin forged ahead with his backpack.  He is an ace of a navigator and managed to find the closest stop to our flat.  We rode the subway (although I don’t know what it’s called in Rome) to the Colliseum and disembarked.

However, from there to our flat was a two hour walk – yes, you read that right – as street names kept changing and piazzas kept cropping up while Ace kept getting lost. Lonna and I were on the verge of mutiny when he suggested we rest in a piazza while he found the flat alone.  He would then return and guide us to it as the crow flies.  We didn’t need to be persuaded.

Sure enough, in a little while Kevin returned minus his backpack but brandishing the keys to our flat. It was very close, and we dragged ourselves up the final stairs to find a charming home for the rest of our stay.  Lonna promptly took a nap. Kevin and I went in search of lunch.

It’s been two weeks since my last blog. Two weeks and a lifetime.  I left Michigan for Rome thinking I would have time to read, which is why I brought my Kindle, and time to crochet, which is why I brought a yarn project, and time to sit on the patio and bask in the Italian sun, which is why I was eager to sip cappuccino.  None of this happened.

Instead, I hiked four to five miles daily around Rome, in soggy weather and soggy clothing, visiting various sites that dated anywhere between two thousand years ago and yesterday.  Yesterday, for instance, was marked by the Papal Conclave that met in the Sistine Chapel to choose the next Pope.  I was actually in St. Peter’s Square the very day that Francis – in Italian, Francesco – was chosen, although I’d left the area prior to the emergence of the white smoke.

I wish I could say that choosing the Pope was the high point of our visit, but it wasn’t.  It was merely a coincidence, a sidebar in the journal of our lives. For we had come to see my son, Kevin, run the Rome Marathon after months of preparation.

Kevin ran Chicago’s Marathon at age twelve and came in second in his age group.  It wasn’t a scientific approach to running; rather it was the energy of youth that fueled him.  This time, he took a more rational approach.  He trained for several months with Rome in mind.  He read copiously about cross training, diet, and exercise.  He put in the time and the miles.

Me? I signed up to be part of his “team” when he reminded me that I’d dogged him at Chicago’s Marathon, showing up every five or six miles to yell encouragement and then racing in my car to get to the next point before he did where I could shout once more.  I made it to the finish line before he did too.

We – Lonna (Kevin’s significant other), Andy (his college friend), and I – were all there at the finish line this time.  He crossed in 3:03, about twenty minutes ahead of his Chicago time. Not shabby for a forty-four year old.  Not shabby for anyone.

The next day Andy left; the day after that we did too.  We’d planned this trip for almost six months, and now it had come and gone.

Tonight we move our clocks ahead one hour; tomorrow I move mine ahead another seven hours as I cross the Atlantic headed to Rome.  It’s enough to cause confusion.  And jet lag.

In the past, I’ve tried various approaches to coping with the time difference between our country and Europe.  I’ve set my clock on European time when I strap myself into my airplane seat.  I’ve stayed up late the night before flying. I’ve tried taking a little nap on arrival at my destination on the other side of the Big Pond, and I’ve stayed up until normal bedtime. Nothing really works.

So I’ve decided that for this trip I’m going to ignore time.  Pretend AM and PM don’t exist. Try to sleep when I’m tired and not check my watch. Not think what time it is stateside.  Just go with the flow.

I’m a very time-conscious individual, so this will be a challenge.  But given that there are so many other things out of our control – the Papal conclave and its impact on the Marathon, the weather, the logistics of having all three planes involved in our travel plans arrive and depart on time – what have I got to lose?

In forty-eight hours, I’ll be in the air headed for Rome, the Eternal City supposedly founded on seven hills by ancient twins Romulus and Remus. It’s an historic time, since Roman Catholic Cardinals (The original Red Hat Society) are gathering in a conclave to elect a Pope to replace Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI.  They start their deliberations on Tuesday, March 12.

No Papal election in the last fifty years has taken more than a few days.  Benedict, for instance, was elected in a day and a half. And while I really don’t care who is elected, I do hope the Cardinals either get it done quickly or linger a couple weeks.

I’m not visiting Rome to see white smoke emerge from the Sistine Chapel.  I’m going because my son is running the Rome Marathon on Sunday, March 17, five days after the conclave begins.  That is, if the Cardinals cooperate.

The official Rome Marathon website has posted alternate plans if the new Pope is chosen on Marathon Day.  They range from changing the route, which goes by the Vatican, to changing the time the race starts by ten hours.  Can you imagine running on cobblestones in the dark?

Obviously, my son and I have no control over this.  Still, we planned this trip last fall, long before Benedict XVI decided to abdicate; and I assume at least twelve thousand runners (the number that showed up that year) planned the same thing.

Rome will be crowded, actually mobbed.  And the fate of our trip to a certain degree lies in the hands of elderly churchmen.  At the same time, Kevin believes the marathon could be the most publicized race of its kind because there are reportedly twelve thousand journalists in town to cover the papal election. In their spare time, they could cover the race.