While the jasmine is still in full bloom, intoxicating the streets and squares of Rome with its magical scent, I give you a life- and love-affirming list of some of my favorite Italian composers, singers and songs:

The Top Two:

Gino Paoli - Una lunga storia d’amore

Bruno Lauzi - Almeno tu nell’universo, sung by Mia Martini

In roughly descending order:

Jimmy Fontana – Il mondo

Gino Paoli – Il cielo in una stanza

Vasco Rossi -  Sally; Vita spericolata

Lucio Battisti - La canzone del sole; Una donna per amico

Franco Battiato – Centro di gravità permanente; La canzone dell’amore perduto (by Fabrizio De André)

Mango – Lei verrà; Mediterraneo; Fare l’amore

Zucchero – Menta e rosmarino; Va’, Pensiero (by Giuseppe Verdi)

Renato Zero – I migliori anni della nostra vita; I giardini che nessuno sa

Giorgia – Come saprei

Eros Ramazzotti – Adesso tu; Aurora; Stella gemella

The Very Special Prize goes to:

Emilio Pericoli – Al di là

This classic, from the soundtrack of “Rome Adventure” (1962), is still performed at weddings and anniversaries. The film starred Troy Donahue and Suzanne Pleshette, and her character was named Prudence! The Hays Code was abolished in 1967, coinciding with my first trip to Europe. When I arrived in Italy I didn’t fly on a plane but on the wings of that melody and that golden voice, with lyrics I could not yet appreciate. Then came 1968.

Everything in life has come to me late, and I have no adventures from the world youth revolution of the late Sixties to relate here. I yearned for it all, deeply, but in action I erred on the side of prudence when I should have thrown prudence to the winds. Easier said than done, especially in hindsight.

Like my musical choices, I am, I admit, a “romanticona,” but I have always felt that love was indefinable and marriage could entrap a woman and limit her potential. Therein lies a good part of my story.

In an interview a long time ago my favorite Italian director, Michelangelo Antonioni, stated he always had a problem declaring his love. If you have seen any of his classic films, you will understand. I was young and green at the time and thought, “what’s bothering him”? With the years, I have come to comprehend.

A few days ago Renato and I went around town in the Mercedes for the first time since he lost his Pippo.

The occasion was devoted to my day job, not my dream job. My day job is fun, but not as much fun as my dream job (ho, ho, ho), but, all in all, I can’t complain, especially when I put things into perspective.

The night before, Renato’s boss called to advise me not to bring up the tragedy because Renato was still vulnerable.

Renato showed up wearing his nicest suit and tie and was, as usual, cordial and professional all day, giving the best of himself.

We had a good day together. After work, in the car, he gave me a laminated plastic card with a formal color photo of Pippo on one side and his and his wife’s remembrance printed on the back.

Pippo was a good-looking kid with the kind of smile that must have come easy to him, just like his father’s. Even though the photo was a close up, you could see that at 12 he was big for his age, almost as tall as his father. He looked like the kind of kid you’d just love to put your arm around and give a big hug, even if he was sweaty and dirty after a soccer game. A sweet kid. A golden boy. A buddy and a pal.

I told Renato I would treasure the photo and that I had already lit a candle for Pippo that morning. As promised, I have placed the photo next to a reproduction icon of the Madonna and Child I have kept on my bookshelf for years, from apartment to apartment, from Rome to New York to Rome again.

The icon was a gift from an old college friend, a bighearted, altruistic girl brimming with joy and laughter. An Ivy League honors student with a Jewish background who renounced a life of privilege to become a nun and serve the poor. I lost contact with this friend decades ago, when Meli was still a baby, but I know she is praying for us all, whether on earth or in heaven.

Natural contrarian that I am, I wasn’t a good Jewish girl nor am I an exemplary Catholic, but I always keep that icon in view to remind me of that friend and what selflessness is all about.

Renato told me that the day after Pippo died, in the midst of their family’s grief, their 14-month old daughter stood up and started to walk. Renato believes it was “as if,” in spirit, Pippo, who loved his baby sister immensely, returned to take her by the hand and guide her as she took her first steps in the world.

Since last November, once a day, almost every day, morning, noon or night, a special visitor rings my doorbell.

The stage is always set for her arrival. The kitchen and bathroom lights are on, the bathroom door wide open, the shower curtain fully extended along the length of the tub, which must be completely dry.

As I ascend the steps to greet the visitor I repeat in an affected, cheery voice (think of Mrs Poole, Valerie’s neighbor): “Look who’s here. It’s Bambi. Bambi’s here.”

Most of the time this announcement produces the desired effect. Cubby Duccio runs from wherever he may be esconced into the bathtub to hide behind the curtain.

Sometimes the stage is not set quite right, for reasons only the patient understands, and he may hide under the furniture or run around in circles, making fools of us, until Bambi gets him into position to run into the bathroom on his own.

I named him Cubby because he is my littlest and youngest cat; Duccio because I wanted to give him an Italian name and Duccio is one of my favorite painters.

Cubby Duccio has end-stage kidney failure.

Until the beginning of November, Bambi used to give him daily fluids in two-week cycles, and we kept him in the bathroom for the entire period. Although my bathroom is large, clean and comfy, with a big, gated window facing the courtyard, being confined was a sacrifice for such a sociable cat.

I put the stereo/radio Meli had given me as a gift when I moved back to Rome 12 years ago in the bathroom and left it playing soft music to keep Cubby Duccio company at night, when the chatter of neighbors’ voices had disappeared from the courtyard. None of the other cats was happy to spend part of the day locked in with him, although I tried. Usually after the two-week therapy he would be well for 6 to 8 weeks. Then we would start another cycle.

When he was confined to the bathroom, if he was perched high on the windowsill Bambi would stand on the ledge of the tub to give him his therapy. If he felt protected inside his carrier on the floor, she would kneel down and reach her long arms in to inject the fluid.

Cubby D is very affectionate and bears me no ill will. When we let him loose after those two weeks in the bathroom, he always came to me to be cuddled and slept with me for part of the night. He still does.

After those last two weeks of therapy in the bathroom, he went downhill rapidly. His eyes became bigger and rounder, he lost weight, and his back had a pronounced arch.

The sonogram vet delivered the end-stage diagnosis. He gave me the option of checking him into the animal hospital for two or three days of continuous intravenous fluids to see whether this would help or the option this particular vet prefers never to put into words.

The vet in charge of recoveries at the animal hospital kept him five full days but charged me for four. The results of the blood sample drawn the fifth day were considerably better than those of the sample drawn the first day, but they were still off the charts. When the vet discharged him late Sunday afternoon, Cubby Duccio was peppy, but we didn’t know how he would respond once I brought him home. She feared the worst and gave me a prescription for a feline-strength anabolic steroid just in case.

I purchased it but, being a sports fan, I never wanted to give it to him because I know its effect on athletes. In any case, he was happy to be home and has had a good appetite.

A Spanish neighbor, Amparo, cat lover and biology professor, has since told me that one injection of that steroid can kill a cat in just a few weeks.

At that point Bambi started coming every day and, fortunately, most of the time Cubby Duccio runs into the bathroom on his own without drama. Bambi’s ministrations take no more than two minutes and when she has finished he runs out again.

He receives Ringer solution, soluble vitamins and a small dose of a gastro protector for the ulcerous gastritis associated with his condition. Once a week we add one-third of a phial of a homeopathic preparation traditional vets have never heard of.

Bambi is in her late thirties, tall, serious, with a mass of long dark hair and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her thin, wiry frame is hidden under baggy, comfortable work clothes. She has a degree in biology and wanted to be a vet but lacked the means to continue studying. She must receive something like a hundred calls a day on her cell phone, a good percentage from me, but also from other “gattare” who have serious problems to solve.

Bambi is a “gattara,” the Roman term for one of the selfless women who spend their essence, day and night, caring for Rome’s abandoned cats. Sometimes the “gattare” volunteer their services, sometimes they are paid (less than what my cleaning girl makes) for working in cat colonies recognized by the city. Sometimes, with the assistance of the police and health care workers, they rescue hordes of cats (even dozens at a time) on the outskirts of Rome from people who mistreat them and keep them in unspeakable conditions, or from areas where construction or demolition work will destroy their natural habitat.

I know how to measure and draw the fluids for a subcutaneous infusion and how to administer it. But Bambi has a special way with cats and I pay her for her services, which are priceless.

I cannot get Cubby Duccio into the bathroom on my own every day, and sometimes I am unable to insert the butterfly needle under the skin on the first or second try, and this makes him nervous.

The nature of Bambi’s work is physically demanding and she suffers from low blood pressure and migraines. She has many more cats in her apartment than I have and when she wakes up in the morning she may have three or four (15-20 kilos total) sleeping on top of her. This is giving her serious back problems, but where can she put them at night? The cats love her, and she loves them back (no pun intended).

The nature of her mission means she is rarely punctual, so if she tells me she will be arriving at 2:30 PM, I may see her two hours later. If she promises she will arrive by 8:30 PM by 9 or 9:30 PM I have to call her to remind her because she may have forgotten or been delayed by an emergency.

One afternoon last week she told me she would be unable to come that day.

I set the stage anyway and when Checco rang my bell with the delivery, I went up the stairs and repeated the magic words.

Before I opened the door for Checco, I checked. Cubby D was in the tub hiding behind the shower curtain. I closed the bathroom door and took care of Checco. Then I went to give Cubby D his therapy. After half the dose (one full syringe, 60 ml), the butterfly needle fell out and I couldn’t reinsert it properly. He started hissing so I considered myself lucky to have done that much.

A few nights later Bambi did not appear at all. By 11 PM I gave up hope. I set the stage, went outside, rang the bell myself, then came in and made my cheery announcement.

Cubby Duccio is a smart little guy. This time he did not fall for it.

Bambi had a splitting migraine that evening and one of her co-workers at the colony had to drive her home. Why didn’t she call me, I asked when she arrived the next evening. She had forgotten her cell at the colony and my numbers were in the memory. Not the first time this has happened.

Cubby Duccio is a beautiful brown, striped tiger, 7 cat years old, with a delicate triangular face every mother could love, long white whiskers, ears a tad too big and, when he is well, a coat that is velvet to the touch.

I was never planning to take another cat. When I lived in my previous flat in the same neighborhood a horde of cats used to hide out in an abandoned lot behind a rusty corrugated gate. I fed them twice daily.

One rainy afternoon when I went with the food, Amparo was at the gate observing the cats as they arrived in single file. The last one, the runt of the litter, maybe only 6 weeks old, had a pronounced limp in one of his front legs. He was almost skeletal. She told me it was my responsibility to take care of him, just as she took care of hers. I came back the next afternoon with a carrier and as the cats approached I snatched him. It was too late to take him to the vet, but I kept him in the bathroom until the next morning. By then his limp had disappeared. The vet said it was muscular, not a bone.

I nourished him, had him tested for feline AIDS and leukemia and, when he was stronger, it was “ciao” to the balls. Cubby Duccio was mine, the latest and last member of my family.

Before Cubby Duccio was diagnosed with kidney failure almost 18 months ago, I used to marvel at what a big, strong boy he had become. I have two other brown striped males, Tiger and Pisellino, both beautiful fatties. Tiger is actually broader in the beam than me (get CinemaScope to get the picture), and if I glanced at the three of them all cuddled up together I couldn’t tell them apart.

Now Cubby D needs his fluids almost every day. If he misses too many days in a row he might no longer respond, and I will have to cry for another cat lost.

Bambi is his lifeline. His well-being is linked to hers.

Why do I always look my worst in the beauty shop?

Waiting for the dye that has transformed my head into a glossy, greasy dark brown porcupine to work its chemical magic, I leaf through a tabloid featuring photos of the young and the gorgeous: actresses, models, celebrities for a day with bikini-perfect bodies swaying on long-stemmed legs having fun at parties and premieres, or walking hand-in-hand along the beach with their latest paramours.

The glitter doesn’t fool me the way it once might have, but images of youth and a life full of possibility make me wistful.

Thoughts of botox and liposuction cross my mind for a moment but, who am I kidding? Except for the hair, I prefer the natural look.

As Carlo combs me out, I stare into the mirror and see a composite of the dear departed: my mother’s big ears, my daddy’s abdominal hernia poking up under my flowing linen dress, Uncle Velvel’s mass. My hazel eyes do not sparkle back at me. Can that be a reflection of tragic Uncle Sol’s sadness and resignation?

Mafalda, who is quite the cut-up even without a scissors, keeps everyone in the shop in stitches punctuating her endless Italian chatter with dramatic “oh, my Gods” in English. She is not around today to distract me.

What does this session accomplish? It relieves me of my grays for 30 days.

It also makes me ask, yet again, those two big questions. What have I become? Who am I?

When I return next month for another go-round I will be sure to bring a newspaper along. The foibles of Italy’s high-and-mighty described by some of the shrewder pundits always bring a sparkle to my eyes.

I will also look in the mirror.

The Mayor of Rome’s buzzword for the city is “decorum.” The mayor wants Rome to be a “decorous” city and he has even created a special office to assure it.

In certain respects the mayor is a dreamer and his definition of “decorum” is, in the opinion of some, a narrow one, embracing only those aspects the mayor wishes to acknowledge.

Noise on the streets in the wee hours, for example, is one of those aspects the mayor does not acknowledge, an issue he and his Office of Urban Decorum choose to ignore, not partially but totally.

Some people, certainly a minority, who have just arrived in Rome for a vacation after spending a few days in, say, Switzerland, find Rome a filthy city. I have not spent much time in Switzerland but, except for the chocolate, I say you can keep your Switzerland.

Some of the “filth” a few Americans say they see in the city as they stand right beside me at one of historic Rome’s most enchanting corners I do not see at all. Perhaps I am blinded by the beauty. Perhaps “filth,” like “decorum,” is all in how you define it.

However…

On my way to work early this morning I am walking to the bar in the main piazza across from the church. I turn off my little street onto another little street and immediately avert my eyes.

I barely glance at the man just a foot or two away from me, within slapping distance, but my fleeting look tells me he is youngish and Caucasian. He is facing me crouching with his rear towards the high wall enclosing the garden of one of the main buildings on the piazza. His trousers are down in the back and he is taking a dump on the street in broad daylight.

I know when not to look, and this is one of those moments. Without breaking stride, I just keep walking. I am angry because he is soiling the street. But a man with his pants down is a vulnerable man and I know I cannot take him on.

All of Rome’s cafes and bars are “pubs” – public establishments. To have a license they must have a functioning restroom, and they cannot refuse use of the restroom to the general public, whether they are paying customers or not.

All this man had to do was go around the corner to the bar where I have my coffee and brioche for a little privacy, toilet paper, soap and water.

Still, some individuals, for whatever reason, prefer to perform their necessities in the open air. Perhaps this young man is a misfit who had problems with his family or at school and does not like to be confined by four walls. It is not for me to judge him or blame society.

After my coffee I put this episode, which is not sporadic in my neighborhood, out of my mind. Darling Fabio is waiting for me in the next piazza with the Mercedes.

Fabio is not the joker I am, but this morning he has an unusually somber look as he turns the key in the ignition and tells me quietly that tragedy has struck someone close to us. I ask him who, and he tells me Renato. Along with Fabio, Renato is one of my favorites. Fabio actually apologizes for being the one to tell me, but if he doesn’t I will hear it from someone else, so it falls to him to break the news.

Renato’s 12 year old son Pippo collapsed on Saturday of a heart attack and died instantly on the field during a soccer game, just like that, among his friends, in the midst of child’s play.

Renato, his wife Tina and their whole family are devastated. Renato is a hard working, good-hearted man devoted to his wife and children, and now he has lost a son, just like that.

As a mother, I’ve always felt that loving my daughter, transmitting that love, involved a metaphorical and literal pouring of love from me to her, from my mind and heart to hers. I always make an arching gesture with my arms to indicate I am pouring. Does she receive it? Does she understand it? I hope so. Does she see that arc of little red hearts pulsating from me to her? She doesn’t, but she was always strong in science and math. Maybe she will grow more sentimental with age.

So now you have Renato and Tina, who have poured their love into Pippo, their “golden boy,” for 12 years, watched him develop, encouraged him to study, worried about him, laughed with him, delighted in him, had hopes for a bright future, and now mourn for him. Gone, just like that. Now, in their grief, they, too, are vulnerable.

I am sitting next to darling Fabio (not my boyfriend; sad to say, I — mature, chubby, challenging — have no boyfriend) as he drives his boss’s Mercedes down my local shopping street.

I spy Checco (pronounced “CAKE-oh”), the butcher boy, trudging along alone in his work whites with a downcast expression. I cannot resist the moment. I tell darling Fabio to slow down. With a flick of a button I roll down the car window and yell a resounding, “Sette a uno, aaaaaaoooooo!” that shatters the early morning quiet. Fabio laughs. He’s a good audience. That’s one reason he’s so darling. Checco is absorbed in his thoughts. I don’t know whether my tease has hit the cross bar and bounced out or made its mark.

Last night, the hometown heroes of AS Roma were annihilated 7-1. If you think of 7-1 as a baseball score, it might not seem so bad. If you realize how hard it is to score a goal in soccer, it is absolutely devastating if your team is on the short end.

The Rome fans may not remember some of the great sieges in history: the Greeks at Troy, Napoleon’s army in the snows of Russia, the Nazis at Stalingrad; they may not be able to locate Waterloo on the map. But they will never forget the gory details of that night at Old Trafford Stadium, Manchester, England.

Later that afternoon Checco delivers my order. I ask him slyly about last night. He says if I ever tease him about that game again he will no longer deliver my Diet Coke, milk, bran flakes, mozzarella, fresh pesto, tortellini, salad in a bag, grated Parmesan in a bag, cherry tomatoes in plastic, frozen peas, cat food and an occasional cut of chicken or thinly sliced medium roast beef with jus on the side to my door.

I tell him I am sorry and that I always root for the Italian soccer teams to win, except for Juve. Dissing Juve puts me back in Checco’s good graces. He accepts my apology and my tip and looks forward to the next game.

I am always nice to Checco. He has the appearance of a giant baby giant and possesses a gentle disposition, unlike his predecessor, who was too often sullen and sour. Checco dropped out of school to work, and he works hard and with good will and, usually, with a smile on his face. He also has a soft spot for cats.

(Easter Sunday)

The architect was the lord of all he surveyed.

It seemed to me that our little piazza, which on the map is not designated as a piazza at all but, depending on the direction from which you view it, either the wider beginning or end of our street, was just about all the architect surveyed, day in and day out. In all the time I have lived in my flat (now more than five years), it seemed he rarely took a vacation. At most, the sound of his voice would disappear for a week or so in August. Otherwise he was in the office 5 or 6 days a week. Even on Sundays, when he wasn’t working and none of his staff was around, he might go to the office to check on things or use it to park his motorcycle.

His apartment, on the first floor, with a window overlooking the street, was just opposite his ground floor office. I live right between, at a 90-degree angle to both, in a third building. In the middle of the two nice residential buildings where he lived and worked there are five or six official parking spaces available to the general public. At any given time, the architect managed to control at least three for his personal fleet. When he had to go somewhere with one of his cars or SUV, he would park another diagonally to keep the vacated space for himself, whether for just a few hours or for the whole day.

I got used to, but never stopped resenting, the noise of his vehicles’ engines revving morning, noon or night while he and one of his staff played musical cars, pulling vehicles in or out and re-parking others so he could claim the maximum amount of space for himself.

One morning one of his spaces was strangely vacant and a woman not from our area unwittingly parked her car in it. One of the architect’s staff came out of the office and courteously asked her to vacate, which she promptly did. It was, after all, the architect’s space, even if he didn’t own it.

When the weather was warm enough, which in Rome can be a good three seasons a year, the architect liked to work with his office door wide open.

Ours is a neighborhood of historical interest. Although our street is quieter, at least by day, than some of the adjacent ones, tourists stroll the byways and bums and the generally aimless wander and loiter. Every so often someone who had no business with the architect would just walk right into his office for a look around. When this happened the architect, yelling at the top of his lungs, would insult the person, tell him to get out and threaten to call the police.

Rome is not the kind of city where people randomly leave their doors open so, besides the opportunity to have more air enter the premises in addition to the ventilation available through the three gated windows, what was he thinking?

I have a metal gate so I can keep my door wide open with the gate locked for fresh air. Intruders don’t enter my flat for a look around uninvited. Every so often an aimless male wanderer might gaze through my locked gate into the living room and ask me if I “need anything.” Do I need anything? What a loaded question! Yes, I need, but I am a connoisseur. And a connoisseur is what I need.

The architect certainly had a temper. More than once I heard him raging violently at someone on the street, perhaps because that person had parked his car too close to one of the architect’s vehicles, or for some other reason. Before it registered with me that the voice belonged to the architect, my first impulse was to call the police.

One afternoon I heard him yelling violently and at length at his little grandson just a few feet from my door. The architect kept repeating, “You know what you’ve done, Valerio! You know what you’ve done!” What could the poor darling have possibly done to merit such an outburst? At his tender age of three or four little Valerio had no idea what he’d done.

The architect’s was the kind of rage that could have brought him to a state of apoplexy.

With his office door wide open it was easier for his numerous collaborators to come and go and for the architect to step out to talk on his cell phone in our little non-piazza. He never had to yell to make his voice heard, and I could hear every word he spoke while he was chatting on his cell whether my door was open or closed.

When the architect would get too close to my door during one of his innumerable daily conversations I got into the habit of turning up the volume of my television or stereo, not just to drown out his voice but to make him keep his distance.

He could chat on his cell phone in front of his own door. Why did he have to stand in front of mine?

By the time I developed this tactic he and I were no longer on speaking terms. Since the apartment I moved into had long been vacant, he had gotten into the habit of parking one of his vehicles too close to what is now my door. The over-proximity was more a question of inches than of feet, but I have to be able to enter and exit without turning sideways or holding my breath. With or without shopping bags. With or without a cat in a carrier going to or coming from the vet.

To describe myself as plumpish would be cute. It would also be an understatement. I am so much more, much more than two feet on a scale would indicate.

One day soon after I moved in the architect brought his tape measure out to gauge the distance between his car and my door. He measured from the chassis. I then brought out my own tape measure and measured from the car’s protruding door handle. He was too close.

He and I had a few shouting matches about this over the next several weeks and if he was firm about his preferences, so was I. He got the message. From then on he kept his cars at a proper distance, but he never spoke to me again. Not even a perfunctory “buongiorno,” which in Italy is considered the minimum level of civility among neighbors.

The architect was a good-looking man, about my age, not too tall or too short for his trim physique, with a short grey beard and hair. He often smoked those Tuscan-style cigarillos some men are so fond of waving around in their mouth, as if they were extensions of their virility. His face brought to mind the famous Boldini portrait of Giuseppe Verdi, minus the top hat and with a shorter nose.

Women of my age and with a temperament were of no interest to him. He preferred younger and less challenging. When Danuta, my tall, firm-bodied Polish cleaning girl, would arrive in the afternoon in her tight jeans, short t-shirt that revealed an ample section of midriff and silken blonde hair waving in the wind, he would call her an endearing “piccola” (“little girl”) and invite her for a coffee. Little did he know that Danuta, who has spent 13 years of her youth in Rome breaking her back cleaning homes from early morning to late evening six and seven days a week, also had quite a temperament. Danuta would always decline his invitations because her romantic interests were focused elsewhere. But she developed a friendship with Gilda, the architect’s sweet Romanian cleaning girl, and learned, minus the spicy details, that the architect had an active romantic life and enjoyed playing the field. Always with younger women.

When I visited New York for a month two winters ago to see Meli and the baby, Danuta had the keys and came to care for the cats everyday. She told me the architect inquired about me frequently during my absence.

About six or seven weeks ago it took me a day or two to realize I missed the architect’s voice and that a few of his cars were no longer parked in those spaces he so jealously protected.

His apartment window was still open and I saw Gilda going back and forth between his office and flat doing her chores.

I thought the architect might be on vacation or away on business, but Gilda told me he was at home resting, and that tests had been performed. At his daughter’s request Gilda was sleeping over at his flat so she could tend to him night and day. Not a good sign.

The weather was unseasonably mild for most of February and March and his apartment window overlooking the street remained wide open all day long. Toward the end of March the weather turned abruptly chilly and one afternoon when I came home from work I saw the shutters to the window had been closed. They have remained closed since then.

When I saw Gilda some days later I inquired about the architect. She hesitated a moment, then told me the architect had died ten days earlier, at home. That same day they had taken his body to the church in the piazza for the funeral. That was the day they closed the shutters. I never heard a thing.

The architect had been diagnosed with an incurable tumor and in less than six weeks his fate was sealed. Gone, just like that.

I expressed my sincere condolences to Gilda even though I knew the architect didn’t like me.

I am sure the architect had sides to his character beyond those I was able to observe in our one-note relations. Sometimes in the evening he and some young woman would linger at the window leaning on the sill to chat and observe the street life below. Several thick candle stumps always lined the sill, and a composition of shiny, brightly colored Christmas tree balls hung perpetually beneath his beamed ceiling. Maybe he kept those ornaments in the room for his grandchildren’s delight. Maybe they will preserve the memory of those joyful red and gold spheres always in their heart.

Requiescat in pace, caro architetto.

AS Roma, the hometown soccer heroes, will be playing a quarterfinal Champions League match against Manchester United tonight at Olympic Stadium and the rafters will be rocking. Some 6,000 English supporters have arrived in town to cheer their guys on. Certain UK websites have called the Rome team fans “savages” and “animals” and warned the visiting fans to avoid certain areas of the city before and after the game. Look who’s talking. The word “hooligan” is not a Roman or Italian word and is sometimes applied to UK soccer fans. The City of Rome has forbidden the sale of beer and alcohol take-out and in glass bottles on the day of the match and until 3 AM the next morning.

The local fans are drunk with expectation. As I leave the house tardy to go to a late afternoon movie two cars loaded with young Roman rowdies slowly make their way down my narrow street. One young man has yet to get into a car with his friends and they egg him on as he walks beside them. On a whim, he drops his trousers and waves two very full moons at them and they all laugh and shout. I, of course, witness the spectacle because it would be hard to miss.

I am not offended, nor do I avert my eyes. In a flash, as it were, I have seen everything. One of the guys in the car looks at me and yells: “Lady, your cat ran out the door.” (“Signora, il micio è scappato.”) Maybe that phrase is a double-entendre I haven’t learned yet.  I don’t recognize any of the guys. If they are from my neighborhood they may know I have cats. I start walking toward the main street and the taxi stand but then, I think, what if I was careless and one of the cats actually got loose.

Losing precious time, I turn around and go back in to do a nose count. All are lolling on the comfy new/used overstuffed down couch and armchairs except Carolina, the velvet grey beauty with the unfriendly personality, but she has a way of eclipsing herself at afternoon naptime. I am worried, but not to the point of missing the movie, so I count one more time and lock the door behind me.

Sometimes in the darkened theatre a man might take the seat next to me. I would feel his glance on the side of my face and, after a minute or two, with a restless hand he might start to palp my thigh. Those were the days.

After the movie I wait in a long line at the taxi stand under the drizzle to go home. When one drop of rain falls in Rome, taxis are hard, if not impossible, to come by (one girl’s definition of drama in the Eternal City: “how do I get where I’m going when one drop of rain falls?” Yes, this is a question that also has bearing on some of life’s larger issues.).

It is approximately 40 minutes before the match and four pleasant looking, well-dressed middle-aged Englishmen (one of whom is literally tipsy) precede me in the line. One of them asks me how they can get a taxi faster. I tell him they will just have to wait their turn. He and his mates comment more than once that they expect to be assaulted by Rome fans when they arrive at the stadium.

The Englishman shows me his tickets and invites me to the game with him. Hmmmmmm. Can this lead to something else? Soccer is not my idea of football and I graciously decline. I hold the precious package of fresh-raspberry topped cheesecake as my evening treat.

When their taxi finally comes the driver refuses to take them to the stadium because, he says, access has by now been blocked. I tell the driver in Italian that the English gents have tickets and which gate to drop them at, and off they go.

When I return home Carolina re-appears from her hiding place and shows me her pretty face.

The hometown heroes win tonight’s game 2-1. The re-match will be played in Manchester next week.

Eleven Manchester supporters wind up in the hospital after the match, one in serious condition with a knife wound in the neck, and the City of Rome is being accused of letting the situation get out of hand.

Italian officials have aired a tape showing a horde of UK fans surrounding a group of policemen inside the stadium during the match, insulting and pelting them with bottles, broken glass and other objects.

Training camp opens in late July. That’s when the good part of the year begins. NFL fans are a different breed of animal.