For example, Fox Dog belongs to someone at one of the tables across the alley from us. This guy's allowed to range freely without someone like me hovering over him, trying to determine whether or not hims needs him sweater. Also, because Italians will drive on any surface large enough for a Smart car to pa.s.s, there's the occasional vehicle coming down this alley, and still, no leash. I would be having a million panic attacks right now, but it seems like all the Romans are having is wine.

"Look at him! So fluffy! Such big eyes! So hungry!" I exclaim. None of the dogs here are chunky, either. How is that possible? I have to monitor Libby's every bite to keep her from turning into a full-on Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

"Do not feed the strange dog," Fletch warns me.

I say, "I would never," which means, "I absolutely will." Because hims very hungry! Hims has to keep up all him fluffs!

Although the dog is paying strict attention to us, particularly since I started doling out sc.r.a.ps of pork chop fat, he's got one eye on the alley behind us and we begin to notice a pattern. Vespas can whiz past, go-cart-sized cars, folks on bikes, etc., but the only time the dog barks is when a person of color pa.s.ses.

"He's barking at all the Moroccan men! This dog is racist!" I say.

"No, he's probably just an all-around jerk," Fletch argues.

"Watch."

A group of rowdy Aussies comes down the alley and the dog has no reaction. Then a chick on a scooter goes past us so closely she practically clips his puffy tail. Nothing. A restaurant worker dragging garbage cans along behind him produces no reaction whatsoever, but when a Moroccan pa.s.ses us, the dog loses his s.h.i.t.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Fletch admits.

Fox Dog blinks up at me but I'm resolute. "No more chops for you, bigot."

"Have you been slipping him food?" Fletch asks. "What am I saying? Of course you have. You are why our dogs are fat."

He's not wrong.

Fox Dog eventually loses interest in us when he realizes the Pork Chop Express has pulled away from the station. He wanders off to perpetrate his xenophobia elsewhere.

Fletch and I linger over dinner, enjoying our wine and each other's company.

I say, "The longer I'm here, the more I understand the Roman way of life. When citizens go out here, that's the whole plan for the night. They don't run out to dinner and rush home to make sure they don't miss Real Housewives. Donatella says they'll sit at the table for hours."

"Waiters make a living wage here, none of the two-dollar-an-hour-boos.h.i.t like we used to deal with. I imagine that's why there's no pressure like in US restaurants to turn the table ASAP," Fletch replies.

"And it's so pleasant, right?" I toy with my gla.s.s of Chianti. "I'm starting to figure out that in Rome, there's a time for everything, like with the cappuccino." Again, coffee is for the morning. No one drinks coffee at night because that's the time for wine. "Seems like at home, no one ever has enough hours in the day to allot for each activity, but here, they have time in spades."

Fletch sighs with contentment as he checks out our surroundings. There's a quiet buzz of conversation and clink of gla.s.ses and silverware, but the overall vibe is serene. "You're checking off your bucket list items right and left here, but I think what you're learning most in Rome is to slow down."

I nod. "Like, Romans move with purpose on the street, but otherwise no one's in a hurry here. There's no panicked sense of urgency like I always feel at home. I wonder how much of this dovetails into our consumer culture."

He tilts his head and sips his wine. "How so?"

"Here, I don't have a sense that people are rushing off to work a twelve-hour day, coming home and popping a Lean Cuisine into the microwave before doing more work and checking in on Facebook before going to bed so they can do it all again in the morning because they need to pay for their houses they never enjoy and the fancy cars they use almost exclusively to get to their jobs that allow them to buy all the trappings they're a slave to in the first place."

"Whew, now I'm exhausted."

"You know what else I haven't seen? Home stores. I've not pa.s.sed the equivalent of Restoration Hardware or Crate and Barrel or Pottery Barn, so I get the feeling that no one's killing themselves working double shifts so they can consume stuff to make their homes Pinterest-perfect. Maybe the Roman message is to not let your stuff own you."

Fletch smiles. "Are you suddenly advocating socialism?"

"Of course not, plus a country on the verge of financial collapse might not be the best example, but there is something to be learned about easing my pace. Maybe Americans stick out here so much not because of the wardrobe or language, but because of our frenetic energy. Like, that's what makes us ugly. We're not good about taking the time to just be and do. We make everyone else tense."

When I was planning this trip, I'd originally had every minute orchestrated, but Stacey warned me that was a bad idea. She said I'd regret not allowing Rome simply to reveal herself to me, so I cut my scheduled activities to no more than three hours per day. Yesterday, we visited the Colosseum but then we had the afternoon free to enjoy a leisurely lunch in the Campo de' Fiori. We won't get to see all of Rome this way, but that just means we'll have to come back.

"I bet having enough time is why no one's fat here. Stands to reason everyone would be beefy because of all the wine and pasta, but they're not. Here we are, lingering over dinner, and we've actually eaten less than we would have at home in front of the television. Where are you on your hunger scale right now?"

I try to get a sense of where I am. "Maybe a seven? I'm satisfied, but in no way uncomfortable. I'm not in the kind of food coma that'll keep me up all night like when we go to Italian restaurants at home."

Fletch does this move I call Dinosaur Finger when he's making a point. He'll tap on the table with his first, second, fourth, and fifth fingers, while holding up the one in the middle. Reminds me of a little brontosaurus. "That's what I'm saying. Here, having dinner is the end goal. Italians are not wolfing down Monster Thickburgers in their ma.s.sive SUV as they haul their kids from soccer to Mandarin to ballet so the kids have fully rounded resumes in order to go to college so they can graduate and repeat the whole cycle."

"They've stopped the insanity."

"Exactly."

"Doesn't seem like a bad life," Fletch replies. "Not a great way to run an economy, but a relaxed way to live."

"No wonder Americans get here and lose our minds. Without the day-to-day pressure of a rigorous daily schedule keeping us reined in, we go careening all over the place like a rapidly deflating balloon."

"Nice visual."

I nod. "Thanks. Professional writer."

He says, "Too bad we have to go home on Sunday. Given enough time here, I believe we could solve all the world's problems."

IL CAVALLO.

"You know what no one ever says about the Vatican?" I ask. "'Wow, what great air-conditioning they have here.'"

"How much water did you drink?" Fletch replies.

"Four bottles, easily." I was so thirsty shortly into the tour that I actually filled my bottles at one of the decorative fountains, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if this wasn't the freshest, most pure-tasting stuff I've ever had. At first I didn't want to drink anything because our guide said we wouldn't have access to a bathroom for two hours, but then I sweated so profusely that excess fluids weren't an issue.

Fletch says, "I can't get over how rude everyone was in the Sistine Chapel. We had two rules to follow. No talking, no taking pictures. Yet everyone was talking and snapping photos. They didn't even shut up when that cardinal came out to bless us."

"I sort of get the photo part. When you come face-to-face with such an iconic piece of art, I understand the motivation to capture the moment. I do. How many times have we seen the hand of G.o.d on coffee mugs and posters and T-shirts? Then to finally witness the real thing in person? I can understand the rule break. Me, I was too busy being the Sleeve and Shorts Police. Every guidebook says that you have to cover your shoulders and knees, and that you'd be asked to leave otherwise, but no one there was acting as a bouncer. Had I known, I wouldn't have worn this heavy-a.s.s skirt."

We're currently attempting to exit the Vatican grounds after spending hours touring the museum and St. Peter's Basilica. This is easier said than done because this place takes up miles of real estate. Not coincidentally, the thousands of the faithful who'd also been having their day o' religion are seeking taxis to return to their hotels for some downtime before dinner alfresco, so we encounter a highly unfavorable cab-to-Catholic ratio.

Having lived in the city of Chicago for so many years, we understand that the best way to get a taxi is not to stand in a line that is already nine-billion deep with sweaty papists. The better strategy is to walk a couple of blocks away from the venue where the compet.i.tion will be less intense; see: Every Professional Ball Game, Concert, and Play I Ever Attended.

"What was your favorite part?" I ask. I'm still bowled over by the level of detail in every nook and cranny of the Vatican and Basilica. There's not a single surface that's unadorned, because everything's either frescoed, marble-covered, or gold-plated. Maybe this is where I get my decorating style, reasoning if one vintage trophy on a shelf is good, then ten are so much better.

"I was impressed by the hallway of maps," Fletch says. "I had no idea the old Popes were more like kings than religious leaders." When we went down one pa.s.sage, the guide showed us intricate maps on which the Popes commissioned artists to note every single aspect of their enemies' defenses, down to where they kept their beehives.

"My favorite part was when the guide rushed us through the contemporary part of the museum. She was all, 'Don't worry about this bulls.h.i.t. Is nothing important.' We were pa.s.sing paintings by Matisse and Dal! Only in a place with this much Michelangelo can the modern guys be considered bulls.h.i.t."

(Sidebar: I had no idea Michelangelo was not only the most interesting man on the planet, but also the most beleaguered. Our guide, the same one who told us to "Push gypsies out of your way," then added, "with manners," called Michelangelo a "b.i.t.c.hy old queen." I'm getting the idea that Romans haven't much of a conversational filter, which may explain my lack of one as well.) (Another sidebar: When Michelangelo initially declined a Vatican commission, the Pope said, "Sure, that's cool, no probs, Mikey. But I hope you don't mind if tomorrow we burn down the city you're from in retribution." Really puts my former bad bosses into perspective.) Fletch and I both agree that the Vatican's absolutely a once-in-a-lifetime experience, which neither of us expected. Before this trip, I didn't have a grasp of any history outside of what happened in my own country. But compared to Italy, the US is like five minutes old. For some reason, I always a.s.sumed history was dry and boring, nothing but a collection of dates to memorize. I could not have been more wrong and I'll be returning home with a burning desire to learn more.

I had no idea of the drama and corruption behind the Borgia Pope's reign. I didn't realize how Julius Caesar was responsible for the rise of the Empire on the heels of the demise of the Republic, dying on the Senate steps after being stabbed. Say what? Sure, I'd heard of the Ides of March, but I had no clue as to what actually occurred that day. And who could have guessed that gladiators were the ancient equivalent of rock stars, with clever vendors selling bottles of the sand on which they sweat and bled. The Colosseum was Beatlemania BC.

Basically, I'm here wondering WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED THAT HISTORY IS THE BEST REALITY SHOW OF ALL TIME?

Or is this yet another fact everyone else knew and, as usual, I'm the last horse to cross the finish line?

Fletch and I stroll for a bit, mulling over our dinner options, deciding not if we should have cacio e pepe, which is now my favorite dish ever, but where. Satisfied that there's no dearth of places to find Italian macaroni and cheese, we move on to discussing if this is the best day we've ever had. Fletch thinks it's possible, but I'm not sure I can agree until I remove my sweaty girdle and voluminous eyelet cotton skirt. Then we debate if it would be weird to convert to Catholicism simply because of the magnificence of St. Peter's Basilica. At this point, the heat or jet lag catches up to Fletch and he declares that he can't go another step without coffee.

Unfortunately, we have no choice but to take many more steps because there's no coffee shop to be found.

We continue shuffling down rustic cobblestone streets, in fine spirits, but tired, hot, and desperate for something caffeinated. We keep hearing Rome referred to as the eternal city. Now that I've been in the city for a while, I suspect this has to do with the fact that everyone here is eternally broiling and exhausted from enjoying its many treasures.

We're not so beat that we aren't mesmerized at how incredibly picturesque everything is, though, and each moment we've spent feels like a gift as there's so much to appreciate. For example, I love that there's not an inch of Rome that hasn't been embellished for the better. Even the doors are works of art.

Design is so prevalent and inspirational in Rome that all I want to do is go home and paint murals across my monotonously white ceilings and slap gold leaf on every dreary chair in my dining room. I mean, the garbage cans are decorative, for crying out loud!

Architecture aside, the light itself is magical. At this time of day, the sun's no longer pounding relentlessly down, incinerating everything it touches, turning me into a human dress shield. Rather, it's a benevolent warm glow in the sky, casting a rosy gold radiance that illuminates the ancient stucco buildings, which are all adorned with bright wooden shutters and festooned with window boxes groaning under the weight of all their fuchsia flowers.

Every inch of the narrow strada we're currently on is picture-postcardworthy, with fascinating vignettes as far as the eye can see. To our right, there's a couple of grizzled old priests smoking, laughing, and drinking red wine at a little iron bistro table. There's a joke here, I think, and it begins, "Three priests walk into a bar." What's their story? Did they just get off work? Are they employed by the Vatican? Does that job come with dental? Are they friends with the new Pope? (I suspect yes-Francis seems kind of awesome.) Do they desperately miss Saint John Paul II or are they frankly just relieved to be done with the interim guy who was so scowl-y?

To our left, a skirt-clad, scarf-wrapped Roman mama purposefully pedals her bike with an adorably pink-cheeked toddler in the seat on the back. She has a basketful of gorgeous produce and fine bread balanced in front. (No one wears bike helmets here. No one. It's like Milwaukee!) It's all I can do not to follow her home and beg to eat whatever she's cooking for dinner.

Please, G.o.d, let it be eggplant.

Plus, it's jasmine season, so the blooming flowers provide a heavy perfume that blankets the city, mingling with the scent of thousands of years of sandalwood and frankincense emanating from all the old churches. Someone should bottle the fragrance of Rome in June; they'd make a fortune.

In terms of sensory overload, we're still reeling from the perfection that is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, even if its magnificence renders everyone incapable of shutting their yaps. I still can't believe we're surrounded by the kind of splendor that a.s.saults every single sense.

Still . . . the coffee thing is getting to us.

"I feel like you pulled a bait and switch," Fletch says, as we plod down the street, two pilgrims on a quest for liquid salvation. We both heeded everyone's advice and are wearing fine walking shoes, and thus far, no one's turned an ankle or formed a blister.

(Sidebar: Another Roman observation? You can't buy a pair of stilettos in this city. Impossibly high platform sandals abound, but there's nary a spike or kitten heel to be seen. I like thinking that I can't manage heels because my ancestors never walked in them, even though it's more likely due to my comorbidity of poor balance and weak core muscles.) "How so?" I ask.

"You lured me here under the pretense that I'd spend my days swilling java, but they make it almost impossible." He qualifies his statement. "It's worth it, but it's still hard."

He's right, too. Who knew coffee would be such a challenge in Italy? I mean, isn't this the birthplace of the modern espresso machine? A couple of days ago, before Fletch arrived, I found a Nespresso shop by the Spanish Steps and I was so excited that I had to take a picture for Julia, who fell in love with my unit last Christmas and finally had to get one of her own.

Coffee is not easy here. In fact, coffee is so freaking hard. (One could argue that coffee is for closers.) For some reason, I a.s.sumed Rome would be an enormous Starbucks, only a million times better. My best guess was that espresso would be as free-flowing and abundant as the fountains dotting the streets. There'd be coffee places on every corner and we'd stroll around the city with our giant cups, admiring the scenery while we sipped the finest brew on Earth. And, because we're a tiny bit smug now-like no one saw that coming-we'd be laughing about all those unenlightened saps at home drinking their stupid, subpar American coffee.

Ha, ha, ha, no.

Easy access to coffee is not the case in Italy.

At all.

The whole getting-coffee process is incredibly complicated, at least for the first-timer. Coffee procurement is an entire procedure and there are distinct rules. And no one tells you the rules; they expect you to know them already. For example, there are scads of cute little outdoor cafes (except, apparently, in this ten-block radius on the wrong side of the Vatican), but you don't usually see anyone except for tourists sitting at them because the real Italians are all inside crowded at the bar.

To order coffee in Italy, you have to master the steps. First, you go inside and you place your order with the cashier, where you'll note that Starbuck-y tweaks such as half-caf-soy-extra-hot-skinny-shot-of-hazelnut are not even a consideration, let alone a viable option.

The cashier will grudgingly take your money, but he won't actually hand your change back to you, instead depositing it in a small dish, even if your hand is right there and in position. I've yet to figure out what purpose the dish holds, but maybe in a city where the plague was an actual thing, they don't touch people when not absolutely necessary?

After you pay, the cashier gives you a chit and you take said chit over to the baristas' area. This separation of church and state makes sense in terms of sanitation because they don't want the people who handle the money to also put their paws on the food and drink. (Again, plague-related?) As Chief Watch Captain of the Health and Safety Patrol, I'd be one hundred percent behind this system, except that at any point in time, there will be eight thousand people crowded around said coffee bar, because (a) the cashier is super fast, what with throwing your change in a bowl instead of counting it back to you, (b) the baristas are in no hurry whatsoever because this is Italy and, for better or worse, they take their d.a.m.n time, (c) they serve your beverage in real cups; ergo, you have to drink it inside the shop, unless you want to pay more to have your coffee outside, and (d) Italians are not big on the concept of "lines" so there's a ma.s.s of humanity all cl.u.s.tered together on the floor of this very small shop, with no rhyme or reason as to traffic flow.

See? The coffee process is already unduly complicated.

Because there are dozens and dozens of other patrons between you and the barista, you have to wait for one of them to finally acknowledge you. And as there's no line, there's no set way of deciding who's first and whoever receives their coffee next is based on a completely arbitrary and capricious set of rules. I've found that if you give them a really big, creepy, toddler-beauty-pageant smile, they go faster, largely because it's so off-putting.

So, when you and your chilling rictus finally get the barista's attention, you hand him your slip, which is when you specify if you want your drink served with or without sugar, which is yet another mystery.

Is il zucchero a precious commodity in Italy? I suspect it may be; otherwise, why wouldn't they let you sweeten your coffee yourself?

(Sidebar: This is also my problem with the Dunkin' Donuts corporation. I guarantee you I know how to lighten and sugar my coffee better than the surly person behind the counter who looks at my cream consumption as both an insult and a challenge.) (Additional sidebar: Last year I went to Dunkin's on Memorial Day at ten a.m. to buy doughnuts and they were sold out. How do you sell out of doughnuts? The cashier suggested that I might rather have ice cream from the attached Baskin-Robbins. h.e.l.l, no, I don't want ice cream! Not eating breakfast ice cream is the only thing that stands between me and not needing a crane to knock down a wall so that I can leave the house! I mean, breakfast cake on vacation is one thing, but breakfast ice cream? No. If it's ten a.m. on a holiday weekend, I want crullers and bismarcks and fritters, d.a.m.n it! Come on, Dunkin' Donuts, you had ONE JOB here.) Ahem.

Anyway.

So, you've finally run the order decathlon and oh, happy day, your coffee is coming! When it arrives, don't expect a big paper traveling cup or even a standard-sized mug. Instead, your coffee will be served in a delicate little demita.s.se the size of an eye bath. I'm not kidding. Even if you order something other than espresso, you get maybe six ounces, as opposed to the Starbucks Trenta, which is thirty-one ounces of pure USA! USA! USA!

Then, you'll stand there and imbibe your thimbleful of coffee, which is the greatest possible thing you'll ever put in your face, thus making the entire tribulation worth it. The full-bodied richness of this heady concoction commingles with the smoky undertones, somewhere between chocolate and tobacco, melting onto your tongue, without even a thought of bitterness or acidity.

As you sip, the woodsy notes become more defined, with hints of the same florals so perfuming this ancient city. The regular old milk from Italian cows is far richer and more resplendent than any heavy cream from Wisconsin's finest and the barista was right to portion out your sugar for you, as he's stirred in the perfect proportion, down to the very grain.

The reasons Italians make the best coffee in the universe are a subject of much debate-some say it's because they hand-pump the espresso shots, while others argue it's the roasting process, which allows the beans to caramelize. Perhaps it is the minerals in the water that turn an average breakfast beverage into alchemy. Others will insist that half the battle is the scenery surrounding the coffee shop. My guess is it's all these factors combined.

One could argue that the Italian cup of coffee is proof that G.o.d exists.

I won't disagree.

Anyway, your impulse will be to savor this nectar of the G.o.ds, this potable ambrosia, to take each sip and hold it in your mouth while it warms your soft palate, allowing the rich goodness to penetrate every taste bud and fill your sinus cavities with delectable, aromatic steam.

Instead, you'll have to swill it down as quickly as humanly possible in order to make way for the hordes of impatient Italians behind you, who are all staring holes in your back, you slow-sipping- doughnut-munching-Rockport-wearing-f.a.n.n.y-pack-having-sugar-h.o.a.rding-spaghetti-cutting-American-motherf.u.c.ker.

Mind you, you could have this same exact experience outside at a table, without all the dirty looks and elbows to the kidneys and plague fears, except the waiter has chased a pretty girl from Singapore down the street in order to flirt with her and it's going to be next week before he even acknowledges your existence, let alone takes your order.

Still, and I can't stress this enough: The coffee is worth it.

We continue to traverse the little cobblestone streets and we're just about ready to give up and grab a cab when we spy a glint of a copper espresso maker inside a restaurant on the corner across from a gelato shop. We step inside the pristine storefront to order, finding it delightfully empty. Noting how hot and haggard we are, the barista suggests we sit outside and enjoy our drinks, sending a non-Singaporean-chasing-waitress to seat us immediately. Fletch asks for a caffe macchiato and I order a caffe freddo, which I a.s.sume is an iced coffee.

I a.s.sume wrong, but this is yet another in a series of happy Roman accidents. Instead of receiving a big gla.s.s of coffee over ice that I can doctor with the Italian version of Splenda and milk, I'm served what's essentially a straight-up, shaken coffee martini, less the liquor.

This turns into one of those moments on the trip when we've inadvertently veered off the beaten path, only to discover something we never expected yet suddenly can't imagine ever living without. Somehow this barista managed to compile everything that's remarkable about a big-a.s.sed iced coffee, and compress it into one simple drink that is espresso at its very essence.

Fletch raises his miniature teacup at me. "If this macchiato is any indication, then we definitely need to eat something here," he declares.

We order a couple of pizzas-Fletch has his with prosciutto and I get the one with bresaola (slices of air-dried, salted beef), rocket, and Parmesan. While we wait for our food, we continue to bask in the scenery.

He asks, "Have you decided if this is your Best Day yet?"

I'm not hot to the point of expiration now, thanks to the power of my chilly gla.s.s of miracle juice, so I'm able to better consider his question. After arriving on Italian soil, I amended my bucket list to have a go-to greatest day of my life for when people ask. Seems like everyone has an example, like, "That time we were scuba diving in the Galapagos Islands and narrowly escaped the Great White," or "When my son was born," or "Our wedding day," but I'm not PADI certified, we don't have kids, and our wedding? Was an unmitigated disaster. Thus far, I've had an awful lot of nice days in my life, but I'm not sure I can say that any of them have qualified as The Best.

The Best Day doesn't necessarily have to be conflict-free or picture perfect from start to finish. Rather, said day should contain a variety of experiences and sensations. Plus, the day's events could illuminate an answer to a long-asked question. A Best Day definitely will provide the fodder for a story I can tell for the rest of my life.