Piazza San Pietro

We disembarked at Civitavecchia, an hours ride outside of Rome. We joined our dinner partners and another couple renting a van-taxi. He dropped us off at our hotel the Melia Roma Aurelia Antica on the outskirts of Rome (but inside the Grande Raccordo Anulare).

Anticipating a later nine-day stay in Rome, we booked a Trafalgar tour that had already begun that morning. So we connected with the tour guide, Katrina (show me an Italian without a cell phone), who directed us on how to join them in mid-tour. Our taxi-driver spoke more English than we did Italian, but that's not exactly high praise.

We could see the Cupola as we drove around the outside, but Momma didn't twig on where we were. We disembarked across the street from the tour bus, which was outside a store. The tour group had just been given a free hour before resuming the tour.

We spoke briefly with our guide, then I steered Momma through the colonnaded portico.


Now understand that she is an intelligent woman and that we took Italian classes in the Spring just to prepare ourselves to interact with the locals. And we were talking with the taxi driver about "Piazza San Pietro". But only when we emerged into it did it hit her like a tsunami: "We're here! We're really here!" Dozens and dozens of photos followed, but I'll spare you all but one.


With that reaction, I was satisfied. The goal was reached. I had taken Momma to the centre of her idea of Europe. Everything from now on is gravy. Who knew there was so much gravy in Italy?


After a driving tour past, amongst many other things, the Circus Maximus and the Victor Emmanuel monument, we stopped at the Colosseum. The tour group went their way, while we just wandered around the neighbourhood, including having a dinner at a sidewalk cafe. It was our first taste of Pizza Margarita. We returned to the hotel that night high on the idea: "We're really in Italy!"

Tomorrow we start the trek across Italy to Venezia.