Temple Testosteroni*

May 3, 2024

Well, sports fans, we’re off to Rome. Our vacation is half over.

Seems like everywhere we stop, we hate to leave.

When we arrived in Florence, Dorina, the hotel manager at the Relais Santa Croce Hotel, took particular delight in good naturedly needling me after I initially declined her paper map. I was confident my Google Maps on my groovy iPad, carefully “pinned” with all the sites we hoped to see, was technologically superior and would avoid that embarrassing struggle, somewhere in. the Palazzo Vecchio, to properly re-fold the primitive paper option she offered.

She and Cathy bonded when Cathy overruled me and graciously thanked her for the paper option. You know the look . . . that look two women exchange when dealing with . . . “mistaken” . . . men. This became a recurring theme throughout our stay.

She was right. Her paper beat my stone.

It was particularly hard to say good-bye to her,

We’re seasoned veterans in Italian train stations now. No need to be an hour early. So, we said our “arrivedercis”, took a leisurely taxi to the Stazione, hopped on the Frecciarossa 9519, and flew bullet train speed back to Rome.

What a contrast! Much different from the baroque Relais Santa Croce.

The Hotel First Musica in Rome is a trendy, happening, recent remodel, with futuristic furniture, clean brass fixtures and gold frosted glass doors separating the bedroom from the bathroom. Kind of George Jetson meets Fernando Lamas. In the restaurant, a playlist of American dance hits appropriate for a 1978 wedding blares and a trendy bar on the rooftop is open until 1:00 a.m., no doubt frequented by Abu Dhabi playboys.

I’ll fit right in.

Our room has a floor to ceiling window overlooking the Tiber River with electrically activated window closures that descend or ascend on the touch of a brass toggle switch. The shower has a floor to ceiling window as well and Cathy assures me that the glass is reflective so the pedestrians four floors below won’t be subjected to me in my Roman altogether.

I offer to test her theory by walking down to the sidewalk while she is in the shower and signal it is safe. by some clever hand sign from below. Apparently, there is a trust issue, or she is not confident that there might not be some confusion in my semaphore skills, so she politely declines and thinks it best that she use the creepy electrically activated shade . . . just in case.

We arrived early and needed to kill time before our room was ready. So, opting to embrace, rather than disguise our status, we went full tourist and did what all red blooded American tourists do to get oriented to the city: we jumped on the hop on/hop off bus.

We have no pride.

Having seen the Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain a week ago, we opt to hop off at the unfortunate choice of the ginormous Monument a Vittorio Emanuele II, Italy’s first King. Maybe it’s the military presence, maybe it’s the frequent reference to “the Fatherland”, but the Monumento seems just a tad bit compensationo for some low T’o.

Rome itself seems much more machismo than we have encountered thus far, prompting Cathy to coin the title to this chapter. * (A clever turn of phrase I wish I could take credit for.)

I was skeptical of her assessment until this morning when my continental breakfast included a small jar of bee pollen.

Not familiar with the nutritional or medicinal benefits of your bee pollen, I decided to Google it.

Hmmmm . . . Cathy may have a point.

Waiter . . . ?