Nine hours in economy class of a wide body jet should be used to punish hardened criminals. Thank goodness they kept feeding me as a form of distraction. That and Robin Williams weak "Flubber," two different books, stacks of irrelevant magazines and a plane full of equally cramped and over-anxious passengers.

Ah the bliss of air travel.

Nine hours after we lifted off, we touched down in the cloudy mid-morning of Amsterdam, 45 minutes late and just 20 minutes from our connection to Rome. Passports, lines, people movers, (bathroom, bathroom!!) slogging our backpacks to arrive, red faced, out of breath (bladders pinched) to hear -- flight delayed one hour!

 Ah, the pleasures of air travel.... Dutch breakfast winging over clouded alps to Rome. Desserted shoreline of the Mediterranean (why no build up? Ahhhhh) Bump. Roma we have arrived. Bus to terminal. Terminal to ... nothing... no customs, no checks. We change a few lira at the machine, take a pee (500 lira) and findthe train into Roma.

Peering out the window from the baggage car (only place to sit) watching garden patches along the rail line flash by, fava beans, artichokes, just emerging grape vines, little shacks of chicken coops and rows of fresh sewn lettuce and arugula. I drool with anticipation.

Roma, loud and in your face, we walk about 1 1/2 miles to our hotel, just a stone's throw from the forum.

Heck, those ancient Romans were not afraid to think big.

Coffee and changing dollars for lira.

Play with the bidet.

Walk all over the ancient ruins to return with take out food and collapse into dreamless sleep that only tosses and turns to the sound of motor scooters on the street. What is sleep?

Ever think about surprises? The really good ones that happen just when you never thing they ever will? The "I'm-used-to-a-predictable-partner" routine?

Where am I? What time is it? Did I really sleep. The sound of motor scooters pierces through the shutters and I smell coffee. Time to be A TOURIST. Time for the complimentary breakfast in the bar adjacent to our hotel. Two cappuccinos, rolls, jam and yogurt. The day begins...

True Seattleites, unfazed at the rain, we don raingear and hit the ancient ruins again, cruising into the Coliseum. Now you have to understand that I am married to a man who maintains as 70,000 picture perfect football stadium (for the University of Washington.)

This is no mere tourist attraction. This is not an archeological wonder. It is one frickin big STADIUM. As we wander around he muses about bathroom access (it must be these large stone cisterns) and seat identification. He reconstructs ingress/egress ramps, now long pillaged for other Roman construction, in his mind, making sketches, I believe, in his mind's eye. He is giddy. It is a kick in the pants.

The throngs of tours with their guides and little speaker boxes huddle in overhangs and hear the rehearsed speeches. We lean across an opening and imagine the place filled with raucous eager Romans, looking for their blood sport. We learned that the lion/bear/tiger populations were wiped in a 2000-mile range all for the sport of the ancient Romans.

Outside, the wonders of tourism tickle our funny bones as refugees sell battery operated crawling GI Joes and Hula dancers, leather sculpted horses and all manner of chachkies... We pass stands of $5 t shirts and stroll towards the forum to be dwarfed by fallen columns stacked against the churches built from the stripped marble of the ancient Romans, culture against culture, religion against religion in the most extraordinary juxtaposition I've ever experienced. Cultural schizophrenia on the surface, yet below, quite consistent. Edifices to power and belief.

We learned early on that walking and stairs were to be an integral part of our Italian experience. All told, we walked around Rome twice. As we proceeded along, we started the first of many museums, full of busts and sculptures...most I could walk by, but a few that would stare back and question my presence or seek to tell me secrets. But they never spoke. Did their eyes follow?

The throngs of school kids on tour would intersect with our paths at every turn, wave after wave, supposedly there for an education but clearly enjoying time out of school. Teens flirting with each other, oblivious to the history lessons; young children playing around ruins which documented torture and power.

Tourism is an odd religion.

Lunch time. We learned in our first full day in Rome the joys of gelato and panini.

I'll indulge in gastronomic explanation next round....

It Italy, you see, the price doubles when you sit down to eat. Consequently, Italians have mastered the art of the stand up meal. Now this is not quite the same thing as take out. Nowhere do you see paper cups of steaming espresso rolling out of shops (though occasionally you will see someone toting a tray of espressos -- cafe's -- shrouded in their little white cups with a napkin off to a neighboring business in the late afternoon).

Coffee is taken, dark black with lots of sugar standing at a bar. There are bars everywhere. Bars that sell coffee and booze and wine, pastries and panini (sandwiches), milk and crackers. Some had sandwiches that looked three years old. Others had glistening sliced meats stacked thick on fresh crusty bread, fresh mozzarella and basil and a drizzle of olive oil that sends one into Rhapsodies of the Olive. Spicy or mild with a bottle of water, mobile picnics of the gods...

But as I was saying, everyone stops for a quick coffee -- sometimes cappuccinos in the morning but no, gauche to have a milk drink in the afternoon -- or a bite at the local bar. And they stay till their coffee is finished. Some linger, some gulp, scalding and bracing as the black liquid descends.

Ahhhh, the smell.

And when the sun starts to bake or your feet are tired, there is the ambrosial pick-me-up of a little plastic bowl of gelato, the Italian interpretation of ice cream. Smooth, intensely flavored cross between a sorbet and ice cream, laid out in glass-fronted displays in rectangular tubs. Many advertised their wares as made on site. The flavors would make Baskin and Robbins run for shame. And the taste...ohhh the taste. I started by sampling chocolate gelatos (for obvious reasons) but found myself drawn to coconut and lemon, bits of coconut stuck between my teeth and breath of lemon, sweet and tart all at once. Ahhhhhh.....

So where was I? Day three. First full day in Rome. We started weaving our way around and found the Pantheon. What a building. What a dome with its open top providing pigeon egress. Former Roman temple to the gods, converted to a church to drive out the ghosts. A group of tourist from Eastern Europe broke into song, filling the dome with a beautiful, sweet sound as the pigeons stilled to listen.

Tourism is a funny religion.

We headed across the Tiber, vaguely heading for Vatican City, but meandering through the back streets. We passed through a lovely, slightly shabby botanical garden which we shared only with a high schools science class examining the medicinal herb garden. Oh, the toilets were free too!

We took pictures of palms and flowers and strolled. The crazy Americans, why weren't they at the museums??

Then toward St. Peter's square. Rome really does "big". Despite the entire facade being covered in scaffolding, the church dwarfed its surroundings, even the massive piazza that fronted its shrouded face.

That church is so huge it is not conceivable that it is a place of worship. Each alter more ornate than the next, the amount of individual craftsmanship staggering.... think of the hours of peoples lives that were devoted to this edifice, both in the name of their god and in the name of power and wealth.

I could not imagine communing with a god in such a space, but I could imagine coronations and gatherings to sway the people.

We climbed up (and up and up and up) to the top of the dome for THE view of Rome, unobstructed, 360 degrees of this city without skyscrapers.

I did not miss skyscrapers or canyons of the American cities I know. I loved the throbbing warmth of tile roofs, glowing red in the afternoon, and the green of shuters and trees.

The Pope has nice digs.

Then, despite the shrinking afternoon, we headed for the Vatican Museum. We did the fast version (was it the red tour? 1 1/2 hours?) The map room was my favorite, a long hall filled with luminescent maps colored spring green and deep water blue. The afternoon light hit them full and they came alive. I tried to imagine a world where people saw these as the full measure of their world.

The Sistine Chapel will remain memorable for three reasons. The two guards trying to shush hundreds of people squashed into the room, the tour guide with the audacity to use a laser pointer to point out features of the Chapel ceiling, and the elderly gentlemen tourists using their gray haired wives make up compact mirrors to look at the ceiling and spare their withered necks.

We walked back fully across Rome to our room to plan our evening. (feet, feet, do not abandon me now) We decided to go to a more touristy spot for dinner on the Campo de Fiores (field of flowers) where artists sell pictures, kids play and tourists go for cheap price fixed meals ... pasta, wine, salad, bread and loud, loud female students from Spain, drunk and trying to out-sing the group of Swedish boys at the next table. Ah, to be young and footloose in Europe on Spring Break....The rituals are universal.

Barely coherent and feet throbbing, we navigate to our hotel, up five floors and pass out.

Our first "real" ride (the airport run did not "count" -- we had but to buy a ticket and get on the train -- no challenges there) was Rome to Florence on April 18th. We had heard the only way to go was first class, so our Italy Rail passes allowed us that luxury. And we heard the super fast trains were not to be missed, so up paid up for the privilege. There I was with my translation book, train passes -- pointing and gesticulating. Of course the kind woman answered in English. We passed over lira, she returned the paper stubs to our dream train ride and pointed us towards one of the what seemed like hundreds of train corridors. I don't remember much more than running, trying to figure out which car to take (we had assigned seats) but sank into my airplane like seat, tucked up my feet and awaited the coffee service. We pulled out of the station and I sat there, nose against the window watching the rain spatter and the city turn to industrial turn to countryside...

The click clack of trains is like a lulaby for me...wanting to watch the countryside, but eyelids sagging. Then the train person came by with espresso out of a vacume pot, chocolates, ear phones and some little snacky cookies and cute box made to look like an old steamer trunk (stash it in the pack for the kids!). The chocolates melted with the coffee and I perked up.

These pendolino trains are sleek and fast. I believe upwards of 90 mph we charged through the land, few road crossings and before I could blink much more, we were pulling into Florence, gray, drizzly skies and the anticipation of meeting one of my "imaginary friends" -- Peggy (pavluv) and her husband and son.

But let me digress a bit more about trains.... No, I had better keep this chronological... but hold that mystique of trains in your minds for a few days of travelogue, for we shall return to the land of choo choos.

We trundled off the train and found our obligatory city map from the tourist counter and proceeded to find our pensione -- Pensione Il Perseo. We zigged and zagged a bit through a few streets of open air markets, dodging motor scooters and people with umbrellas. At the Pension we checked in, climbed the stairs to a spacious room at the end of a quiet hall (except for the night the foreign exchange students were there...). We dropped our bags and I hit the pay phone to call Peggy.

In Italy, they use phone cards. Believe me, don't mess with the coins. After futilely trying the coin route, I ran out to a tobacconists, bought a phone card and got through to Peggy. The plan was to rendezvous out front of the Pension in a bit, so we wandered and found THE BEST bakery, Il Forno on V. Eliz. Cherchi. Go there. It was not the tourist spot -- we were the only lost Americans as we drooled our way through hot paninini, crisp and salty. Ummmmm...

Of course when we met Peggy, the first thing she did was take us to a chocolate shop. We pointed as the women behind the counter pulled out goodie after goodie, and wrapped it up in beautiful paper and ribbons -- which we promptly tore to shreds. Licking our fingers, we set out on the Piazza and went to oogle the main church, Il Duomo.

Peg, Al and Jon-Louis (the ringleader at age 3 of our merry troupe) gave us a sense of Florence by taking us up to a park (Michaelangelo park?) up above the city, where we had the sense-making view over the tiled rooftops. There was the Ponte Vechio -- and there was Il Duomo -- we pointed and ohhed and aahhhed. Then back in the car and up to the other side of the valley to Fiesole for...yes...gelato!!! Fiesole is an ancient town that was home to Etruscans way before the Renaissance bigwigs made Florence famous. Their striking figures in bronze show strong, opinionated people.

Meeting Peggy and her family was a delight -- I continue to be amazed and grateful for the very cool people who have floated into my world via the Internet and it's magical electrons. Fate is wonderful at times. Peggy dropped us off at a flower show where, after smelling flowers and being grateful I was not tempted (no that won't fit in the backpack) to buy plants, we walked back through the length of Florence. We soaked our tired feet in the bidet, then set out for a quiet dinner near the Ponte Vechio. Tomorrow, the art scene....

My most extreme memories of standing in lines was Disneyland on a New Years Eve. Don't do it. Just Don't Do It.

But standing in line at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence on April 19, 1998, proved to be an adventure unto itself.

We started the morning with an excellent café latte and fresh rolls at our Pensione then strolled the 4-5 blocks towards the Uffizi. I sent my husband along ahead to stand in line (we expected some line) while I browsed for a calendar at a street vendor's stand for a friend (actually, it was one of those hysterical penis calendars. I am loath to admit it, but I looked at it, but was embarrassed to open it up. On the last day of our trip, my husband opened it for me and we bought it for a friend of mine. She loved it. It was photos of penis off famous statues with suitable subtitles! But I digress. Penises can do that, can't they?)

After strolling towards the river and the Uffizi line, I looked up to see the queue wrapped around the piazza which lies between the wings of the gallery. It was huge. My eyes widened, my feet sighed and my hopes for a short wait withered. I then had to find Larry. So I worked my way up the line till I saw the back of his head, nodding to an elderly gentleman. I joined him to be introduced to Mr. Z and his daughter X (yes, I can't remember their names. Alas, I did not jot that down in my little travel journal. I feel grateful to remember anything these days!) He must have been in his late seventies, a very proper English gentleman, in his dapper coat and hat and somewhat chagrined daughter, on holiday with her dad with a bit of reluctance, love and indulgence.

He had been a civil engineer and had worked in many parts of the world. He loved to travel. This man had view on the world, on hotels, airplanes, galleries, art, music, manufacturing, the selling of paintings and rare prints (I have an eye for a good priced print... my daughter buys these reproductions -- waving his arms at the street vendors -- on the corners! Sigh...)and just about any other topic you could light on. He told stories (some into the ever fiercer blowing wind that carried his emphatic words to the river) of India (you ought to go to India, you'd jolly well like India) and of teapots he found at rummage sales. He entertained us for nearly two hours and the line begrudgingly moved us forward towards the door, each step packed a little tighter. Were we cold? Or impatient. We parted at the door, he tipping his hat, his daughter casting us a slightly apologetic and thankful glance.

Inside the Uffizi is what is sometimes called the most comprehensive collection of Italian Renaissance art in the world. Lotsomadonnas is another way to look at it, and lotsoportraintsofrichguys. Some of the paintings glowed as if they were alive. Others could put me to sleep in seconds.

There is not much description in Italian museums. I was raised in the Smithsonian world, where not only was every piece marked and narrated, but there were books and pamphlets so you would could actually drown in more words than exhibits. Here, description was sparse. You could catch the prepared talks of tour guides (in your choice of languages) if you hung around the right group. Snippets of historical background for the taking.

It was hard to imagine that about 20 years earlier the river had risen up to the second story of the Uffizi (where now all the art is displayed) nearly destroying this collection which carries all the big names in Italian art. My, my, those boys kept busy back then painting. Anyway, it reminds us nature has the last laugh, eh?

After the restrained bustle of fine art, we struck out across town to the Boboli gardens, a sprawling and rather unkempt estate, castle, fortress and now, public garden. We walked in and around the formal and informal arrangements, trying to give privacy to the paramours strewn throughout the park, walking and walking will we were at the farthest and quietest end. Finding a little side gate out, we found ourselves on a narrow alley. Hungry.

There was a little restaurant, the Boboli. And we went in and feasted. Larry had lasagna, fried chicken and artichokes (I stole one) and I had traditional Tuscan bread soup, Ribbolito, (it was the best of 4-5 bowls I had on the trip) full of tomatoes, olive oil and yummy stuff. I also had carpaccio with arugula. It was divine. And of course, red wine. We finished with biscuits, wine and coffee. I could barely make my way out the door I was so full. We slowly ambled down the quieter streets, away from the tourist bustle, admiring the beautiful buildings. We came upon a farmers market and if I were not so full, I would have begun eating...fresh vegetables, glorious looking bread, wines, olive oil, honey, herbs, ahhhhhhh....

We strolled in and out of churches, stared in store fronts (it was siesta) and just took the most roundabout and leisurely route back to our pensione. Then took a nap!

Naps are wonderful things. I must practice the art of napping more often.

We awoke just after dusk and headed out again, watching people and walking around the busier piazzas. People watching is especially fine this time of night. Stopped for dinner at Grotto Guelpha for dinner. Ravioli with sage butter, salad, risotto gorgonzola and a little dish of chichetti with vin santo. Light repast, after the midday indulgences. Went back and dreamed of food.

I grew up with Italian lore. My grandmother and grandfather on my mother's side were Italian. My grandmother's family (Sciacquia - I need to check this spelling) was from the Lucca area, but she was born in California around the turn of the Century. Her family was all farmers and continued to be in both the Fresno and Salinas areas. My grandfather came to America, to the West Coast, as a young man. He too, was from Tuscany but we don't know much about his family other than my grandmother used to say the Barsotti's were always "poor as dirt!"

So of course if I was in Italy, I wanted a glimpse at my roots, half my genetic heritage and a big measure of my food passion heritage. There was only one problem. When I woke up that morning, that fair Florence morning, I felt like shit. Nausea, diaharhia, cramps. Oh baby. Was yesterday's daring raw beef lunch? Had I fallen prey to my own piggishnish?

I took two Imodium, visited the room down the hall numerous times and said to my husband "lets go." Train book in hand, we walked (slowly, slowly) to the train station to catch the train for Lucca. We got on the train and I slumped into my seat and closed my eyes. Being immobile seemed to help. We chugged down the track, stopping at all the requisite stops (this was a milk run) but all of a sudden we stopped in a "stop" kind of way... the train engines shut down. Everyone got up and left the train. A conductor shooed us off saying this was the end of the line. The end of the line? We looked out the window and the sign said PISTOIA. We were going to Lucca. The conductor gestured and said "catch a bus." So we descended and finally deduced that there was track construction so for this run, Pistoia was the end of the line but we could catch a train to Lucca in 90 minutes. So we decided to walk around Pistoia, a beautiful town. The church, the children's hospital with the lovely ceramic sculptures and a quiet, friendly feeling. I dragged myself around, reading, trying to take my mind off my stomach (stopping at every chance) but fighting a sinking feeling (what have I done? What have I done?)

Soon we were on the train to Lucca. I was feeling worse. I wanted to puke, but heck, I don't puke. At Lucca, my decent was glacial. Larry held on to me like I was an old lady. But ahead of me was a fairy tale town, the fabled walled city of our childhood myths, green with trees and parks, children literally playing everywhere, church bells chiming and bird chirping. I must have been in delirium, but no, this was Lucca.

Lucca at one point in history feared attack by invader so constructed a huge thick wall around their beautiful city. Along the top, the width of a grand avenue, there now is a park with paths wide enough for accommodate pedestrians and bicyclists. At the corners there are large criss- crosses of garden and pathway, with views across the green country side. Crenellated at the edges, softened with green, the wall is now a welcome respite instead of a fearsome protection.

Within the town, the streets are clean and narrow, opening to piazzas with churches and cafes. Ubiquitous school tours flirted with each other and ignored the history and art, while the few tourists (guidebooks always at the ready) absorbed the history of a town once run by Napoleon's sister, with touches of France still visible in the architecture.

I had from my cousin the address of an old estate where supposedly there was an old coat of arms for the Barsotti family (is this the same family that was poor as dirt?) - the house was long gone, replaced by apartments. But my sickened body sagged even more when the tourist information person told me the address was about 5 km out of town -- a taxi ride away.

I looked a Larry. I couldn't do it. All I wanted to do was get on the train and go back to Florence and to bed (and the bathroom). I felt defeated, disappointed and like...well...crap. So we slowly walked back to the train station and caught an early train back. Barely, we walked to the Pensione where I fell into a deep nap.

Larry decided to go climb the tower of the Duomo. He was getting into the gist of the tower climbing routine, and had begun to take a series of pictures - three sixty around each tower he climbed to be reassembled once we got home. While he climbed, I rested and gratefully awoke about dusk, feeling better. Thank goodness, whatever had afflicted my intestines had passed. I was even able to eat some crackers for dinner!

When we got back to the states and told this story to my mother she cried "Grammy wasn't from Lucca, she was from Pistoia. Grampa was from Lucca! So fate and track construction had led us to both hometowns. A simple and delightful twist of fate....despite the intestinal disruptions.