DAY 1: ARRIVING IN PARISTUESDAY MAY 9The problem with the overnight flight from washington to

Paris is commuting into the city after. You arrive just intime to hit morning rush hour. And we did. Air France'sshuttle rocketed us from the airport but quickly becamebogged down in traffic. From now on, we'll take a day'flight, or maybe linger at the airport over a cup of coffeeand croissant while flipping through fashion magazines untilthe morning rush hour ends.

Checked into the Hotel Saint-Romaine on the rue st. Roch,a half block from the Tuileries Gardens next to the Louvre.Getting ourselves and our luggage into the phone-booth sizeelevator required careful planning, which we were far toobleary-eyed to do. So the ride was tight and uncomfortable.

More room in the chambre, thanks be to God.Niels, a young London-based radio reporter I'd become

close friends with in Haiti, called shortly after ourarrival and came by. Paris was in a festive mood; ahappening place, he reported.

A couple of days earlier, Niels had made the three-hourtrain trip through the Chunnel. Paris' mayor, JacquesChirac, had just been elected president. Also, the citywas the scene of one of many celebrations staged in worldcapitals to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the end ofWorld War II. Paris festivities were somewhat subdued dueto a degree of national sheepishness, owing to the Vichy'scollaboration with the Nazis, said Niels.

The three of us strolled through the Louvre grounds andover to the Left Bank, where Niels was staying with friendsnear st. Sulpice Church. Took an impromptu tour of thechurch and, feeling quite pious and reflective afterward,sipped some wine and ate a relaxed lunch of croque monsieursandwiches on the sidewalk tables in front of Le Mabillon.The cafe provided us with the quintessential American faux-French experience on our first day in Paris.

We parted ways with him for the afternoon and headed backby foot to the hotel, as Lee was feeling tuckered from theall-night flight. But it soon dawned on her that I hadn'tthe foggiest idea where I was leading her. We ended uptaking a tour-a-pied of most of western Europe, or so itmust have seemed to her. Finally, we made it back to thehotel and she napped while I walked for another couple ofhours. I spent the time asking myself how the city'sacclaimed food lovers could be so fashionably gauntaltogether unlike me.

Later, we went out to dinner with Niels in therevitalized Marais section of Paris. Before dinner, westopped for a drink at a Frenchy-Iooking dive packed withdissipated oddballs sporting bizarre tattoos, haircuts, andjewelry, some with rings in the most remarkable places. Leewas the only woman there. Ummmm.

Afterward, ate at Les Philosophes (28 rue Vieille-du-Temple). Food for thought; wine for the soul. Niels' steaktartare was memorable. Tried to let him eat his E. C6liplatter in peace. But it was good and tempting and within

fork's reach.Wandered, lost for the most part, back to the hotel some

time after midnight. Dropped off Lee. I walked Niels backto the Left Bank, where we had a night cap (Niels, three)while discussing Europe and the U.N. 's horrid mishandlingof Bosnia. Niels tried half-heartedly to defend the U.N.'sfailure to protect the safe-areas under its control. Sounderstanding.

Sometime after the bells struck twice, I headed home.Ta-ta to Niels.

NOTES: Sunny in morning, cloudy in afternoon, and cool, butcomfortable. Hotel Saint-Romain, 5 et 7, rue Saint-Roch,75001 Paris, tel 42 60 31 70

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WEDNESDAY MAY 10thDAY 2: TOURING PARISBreakfast at a little place on the rue st. Honore. Lee had a

sensible and nourishing meal designed to serve as a suitablefoundation for a long day of sightseeing. I had hot chocolate andchocolate crepes.

Off by foot to the Eiffel Tower. Armies of blue- and gold-cladZaragoza fanatics. Didn't have a clue what they were about, butthey were everywhere, in groups large and small, alwaysexuberant, singing, jumping, chanting, waving their banners andscarves at passing, cars, buses and even boats on the Seine.

And what a fuss of joy they made when running into each other.Looking for serenity if not sanity, we took to the water. We

hopped aboard a bateau for an hour-and-a-half sightseeing cruiseup and down the Seine. A chance to see many of the grand oldbuildings of Paris. More importantly, we were moving undersomething other than our own steam.

Afterward, we picked up a bottle of Heures Esquises perfumefor Lee at a Left Bank perfumery (Advertising slogan: "Turn HisKnees to Jelly, His Heart to Jello, His Wallet Will Follow). Thentrundled off to Les Deux Magots for some well-deserved afternoonwine and cheese.

A heady experience, This particular cafe has been a meetingplace for the French literati since opening its doors in 1875.Any delusions of kinship to past illustrious patrons, such asJean Paul Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir, were quickly dashed.

It wasn't that we're unversed in French existentialistthought. It was lesser things -- like not even being able to readthe menu. Upon leaving, I looked on either side of the doors forthe deux magots for which the place supposedly was named.Nothing. 'Nary a cockroach.

Had dinner at Restaurant Julien, 16 Faubourg st. Denis. Justwhat you'd expect in a bustling, noisy Paris bistro. Eclecticcrowd. Extra-large ornately framed'wall mirrors, high stainedglass ceilings, murals, handsome wood trim, and charming,attentive waiters. Les garcons were absolutely marvelous. Theyhad lightning foot speed and great sliding technique.

Got to see ours perform every time I reached for the bottle ofPouilly-Fuisse chilling on the table near my left elbow. At theslightest movement in the direction of the ice bucket, the waiterstopped dead in his tracks and sprinted across the room, arrivingtables ide with a graceful, gliding finish. Smiling warmly, hegently pried the bottle from my fingers and poured. I wondered ifthere were rules against customers pouring their own wine.

Also, whether he was wearing bowling shoes.For dessert, the best creme brulee ever. Not the usual hard

caramelized shell. Obviously, it"was pulled from under thebroiler a little early so that there was still a little loosebrown sugar on top. A sweet, soft shell. Andunderneath ...rapture.

NOTES: Cloudy, windy and chilly all day.

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DAY 3: PARIS TO GIGONDASTHURSDAY MAY 11Picked up a four-door, five-speed# six-cylinder Fiat

Croma from Europcar. It would serve us well. Headed south,past manicured farms. Very fast. No speed limit. Arrived inProvence early afternoon. Began looking for Gigondas. Gotdirections in a town by the unlikely name of Orange (thereare none, never have been, and probably never will be, atleast not a home-grown variety) .

At one point, a poorly dressed decrepit, near toothless,stuble-faced, mumbling old Frenchman approached me. Icouldn't understand a word he was saying -- and not justbecause I don't speak French. Even a fellow-Frenchman wouldhave trouble making out his words, I'm sure. Nonetheless,I was a little taken back when he began unbuttoning histhreadbare shirt with trembling hands. Of all the conjecturethat passed rapidly through my mind during those seconds, Iwas unprepared for what followed. Nestled inside his shirt,pressed against a tangle of white body hair, was a veryyoung and obviously quite diseased kitten.

Words failed me."Non, merci," I finally mumbled politely, apologetically.After getting directions at the tourist office in the

square, we headed for Gigondas.Lee's excellent research paid off with an inn called

Les Florets. Visually stunned as we approached the stonevillage. Patchwork quilt of vineyards and medieval RhoneValley dwellings. Wound our way into the mountains towardmassive rock outcroppings known locally as the Dentelles.

Granite teeth nipping at clouds flying by on a briskwind.

Halfway up is Les Florets, an auberge hidden within acanopy of trees. A flagstone and gravel courtyard pivotsaround a long-armed sycamore. It looks like a gracefulundulating octopus when. the wind blows. One arm reachesup to our bedroom window.

Terrace a medley of color. Decorated with roses,geraniums, begonias and more, including even an hybiscus.And an old well, too. Patio looks out over a narrow vistaof a steeply forested mountainside supporting an occasionalsloping, rolling vineyard.

Above loom the Dentelles.The dining room had the perfect ambiance for a rustic inn

in Provence. Provided a grand meal for the occasion. Roastduck with a killer wine sauce and bulghur. Creme brulee fordessert. Local red wine a product of the Gigondas commune.(For both of us, our best meal ever.)

Greatly fatigued and full, we stumbled up a flight ofstairs to bed.

NOTES: Partly cloudy in morning, cloudy in p.m. Startedraining in evening. Hotel: Les Florets, 84190 Gigondas,tel 90 65 85 01 and 90 65 86 76

DAY 5: GIGONDAS TO MONTE CARLOSATURDAY MAY 13We checked out of Les Florets with a sense of sadness

at our leave-taking. One final glimpse from the floralcourtyard.

Drawing in the morning's moist air, we gazed one lasttime at the forested hillside and vineyards surrounding LesFlorets. Then up to the Dentelles.

By nightfall we should be in Italy.But first we paused briefly to do laundry in Carpentras,

not far from Gigondas. It's famous for its black market intruffles, but unremarkable otherwise. We weren't able toscore any of the pungent black wrinkled buttons. But atleast our clothes were clean by the time we left.

While they were sudsing, Lee wandered off to a placecalled the Van Gogh Cafe to, use the bathroom. Cleverly,she stayed to sip coffee and nibble on chocky. Meanwhile,I remained dutifully at the coin-op, my nose pressed hardagainst the window of the side-loading washing machinewatching the clothes slosh in the suds.

Then on to Avignon, to pick up a credit card thatMonsieur Clothead himself had left behind yesterday aftereating his potato, lamb and mushroom concoction -- anddrinking too much wine.

The weather cleared up as we drove south and east towardthe Italian border. We stopped in Aix-en-Provence for lunch.We're definitely back in the 20th century. An artsy, collegetown. Pastel colors. A pronounced Mediterranean influence.Lee had a delightful and modest but tasty salad with friedgoat cheese. I made my usual sensible birdlike choice: filetof steak, hash browns, bread and butter, ratatouille, wine,coffee and tarte tartin (smothered in creme fraiche). Mybest meal ever. And, finally, I'm learning moderation.

We drove into Cannes for a quick look and ended updriving round and round for 20 minutes, trying to find ourway back to the autostrada. Decided to bypass Nice to avoida similar mishap.

Running out of francs and sunlight, we stopped for thenight just shy of our goal of Italy. Stayed in a French towncalled La Turbie, sort of a blue-collar tourist town. But,perched on a bluff overlooking Monte Carlo, even thewretched saggy bed offered us a sense of false luxury.

Beautiful evening. We changed and drove down a steepwinding road with magnificent views for dinner in MonteCarlo. Gawked at the casino, yachts and Bentleys.

Ate at a restaurant next to the casino. Lee had mushroomrisotto. I had cream of vegetable soup. No, I wasn't sick.Mostly, it was an error in ordering from the French menu.But for once, I didn't declare exuberantly afterward thatI'd just eaten the best meal of my life.

Then for a post-prandial walkabout that, much to Lee'sfrustration, led farther and farther from the car. Upendless, useless flights of stone steps to nowhere,certainly not the car. But the view of the harbor wassensational and we did eventually wind around back to ourstarting place.

We didn't go into the casino because it was guarded bystuffy Mafioso-looking thugs wanting us to surrender ourcoats, camera and 50 francs each to get inside.

Boff to that.

NOTES: Cloudy and chilly, cleared in p.m. Evening in MonteCarlo clear & nice. Hotel Le Napoleon, 7, av de la victoiro,06320 La Turbie, tel 93 41 00 54

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DAY 6: MONTE CARLO TO PORTOFINOSUNDAY MAY 14The day began in Monte Carlo and ended in Portofino;

in between we snaked our way along the French and Italianrivieras, trying to recall the movies for which it had beenthe setting. Through Menton. Across the border and finallyinto Italy, a couple of days behind schedule.

Stopped for lunch in Porto Maurizio. The restaurant,Chicco, was an intimate, cool little cave-like place withwhite curved walls and low ceilings. Faced the sea.

It wasn't by accident that we stopped for lunch in PortoMaurizio. It's the home town of my closest friend from UCLA,an Italian exchange student named Ivar Massabo who spokealmost no English when he arrived. I taught him everythingI know about the language. We were soulmates back then. Whenthe other kids in the dorm would head off to classes, we'dstay behind smoking Gaulois, drinking coffee and grousingabout the banalities of life. But we haven't had anycontact in the 21 years since his return to Italy. A reunionwould be nice.

Looked in the phone book for his or his parents' names,but they weren't there. Jotted down a couple of possibleleads, but it looks like a reunion with Ivar is out. So weheaded off after taking a snapshot of the Porto Mauriziotrain station, just so I could content myself with the factthat I'd been there.

Drove along the Ligurian coast through Genova toPortofino. Traffic along the one road into and out of townwas totally backed up. A beautiful Sunday and everyonewanted to be there.

Lee scored again with her excellent research. We got aroom in a hotel called The Eden. True to its name, it hada lovely, lush garden in front. Just a short one-block walkthrough a laundry-hung alleyway to a waterfront lined withsmall, wooden fishing boats. The horseshoe-shaped cove wasrimmed with a single row of four- or five-story buildingsdecked in trompe l'oeil and curving seamlessly along thewaterfront. San Giorgio church and fort (16th century) areon the hillsides overlooking.

st. George is still a big man here.Dinner at II pitosforo. Dining room like a nautical aerie

from which to watch night descend over Portofino. with thesun setting in the west behind us, we watched the verdantmountains to the east along the curving peninsula darkengradually into a silhouette, and then blackness. In thedistance, a thin spray of lights emerged on the mainlandproper.

As we ate, a full moon rose over the seaside mountain.We both had different scampi dishes. Mine was the best mealI'd ever had. It featured a curious cross between shrimp andlobster.

Nearby and in full view from our table, some lucky soulson a gigantic white yacht were being served dinner. Sothat's how the other half lives. Not that we were feelingsorry for ourselves; not in the least.

Walking back to the hotel, we turned and paused. The

moon, luminous and full, was high in the sky over the cove,sending a lunar shimmer across the inky waters toward us.It cast a silver halo 'round a gray-black cumulus suspendedabove the steeple of the San Giorgio Church, which was litup like a Christmas tree. At our feet, the water's edge andsmall wooden fishing boats, their red and blue hulls facingthe moon as they rested upside down on land for the night.

without a tripod there was no way to photograph thescene. So we stood there quietly for a moment hoping to burnthe image into our minds' eye.

NOTES: Alternating sun and clouds all day. Nice in eveningin Portofino. Hotel Eden, vi co Dritto 18, 16034 Portofino,01885 26 90 91

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DAY 7: TOURING CINQUE TERREMONDAY MAY 15The middle-aged Italian innkeeper at the Eden seemed

to take special pride in the coffee he produced from hisespresso machine at breakfast. In the dining room, eachtable was set with a basket of croissants, sweet rolls andlarge selection of jams. Through the windows we could seeEden's garden. We ate heartily, wondering if American coffeecould ever satisfy us again.

Afterward, strolled up to San Giorgio Church. Chapeldoors were made of ancient green steel and provided reliefrenderings of great moments in Christiandom, including st.George's slaying of the dragon.

From outside the chapel, halfway up the mountain, welooked across the Mediterranean's aquamarine waters andwondered about far-off ports. Turning to the north, we couldsee the horseshoe-shaped waterfront of Portofino, with itstrompe l'oeil facades in burnt oranges and mustardy yellows;to the east, we saw the Ligurian seacoast snaking southwardat a great distance.

With the weather finally clear, we jumped into the Fiatand headed off at a great clip for Cinque Terre, a stringof five fishing villages built into the craggy coastline.We used up most of the morning trying to get there by allthe wrong routes. Once there, found that the trains weren'trunning between the five villages because of a strike.

So we settled in for a nice lunch at the first terra,Monterosso. It's the largest and therefore probably theleast charming. Getting there required a harrowing drivesnaking along a narrow road through the mountains and downto the village. My deft helmsmanship saved the day.

Also, a fortuitous absence of cars coming the other way.After a safe arrival in Monterosso, we learned about the

train strike from a rather pathetic, sickly, overly lonelyand extraordinarily homely (but greatly good-hearted) womanfrom Aberdeen, Scotland. She was trapped there.

We met her toward the end of lunch under a sun umbrellaoutside II Gabbiano, a seaside cafe. Recently divorced, shewas making her maiden foray on holiday alone, and she wasmiserable. Fowl weather. And the Italians, who tend toresent all tourists even though they're an economic life-blood, were especially cool to her. The entire time we werethere the waitress ignored our patient friend from Aberdeen.It was only after we summoned the waitress on her behalfthat she even got a menu.

Anyway, immediately after the lady from Aberdeen haddecided a day or two earlier to end her disappointingvacation and return home, the train operators went onstrike.

Her stranded loneliness and misery in the midst of suchsweeping natural beauty was a solemn reminder to us aboutthe value of companionship, as if we needed one. Throughoutour trip we've both reflected on the importance of havingsomeone with whom to share these kinds of extraordinaryexperiences.

The woman from Aberdeen found us good company, largely

because we spoke English. She probably had pegged us ascharitable, approachable people after watching us givemuch of our lunch of scampi and mussels to Monterosso'spopulation of diseased feral kitties, who had quicklyconvened a family reunion at our feet when we began droppingtidbits from the table.

with the trains not running between the villages, wedecided to attempt the treacherous, serpentine auto routethrough the mountains to the next village, Vernazza. Apicturesque seaside village, but gelato was our real rewardfor the perilous journey.

Back up into the mountains. After reaching the summit,we bumped our way along the ridgetop on a wonderous Haitian-style road (mud-filled holes and a zillion tiny ripples --speed bumps by Mother Nature). Far below us, the frothy sea.More beautiful than California and maybe even Hawaii. ButLee was less than thrilled with the condition of the road,which was capable of breaking one of the Fiat's axles orsimply petering out altogether, leaving us stranded. Or soshe feared.

And in such a magical, breath-taking place, no less.Oh my. People cursed with common sense do have such strangefears.

Regardless, we were shortly back on the autostradazooming north toward our temporary home in Portofino at awonderous clip, whizzing past BMWs at more than 110 mph. Wewere so swept up in the exhilaration of all the speed thatwe missed our exit by 15 miles or more. Pulled an illegalu-turn on the autostrada. It seemed the Italian thing to do.

Once safely back in Portofino, I pestered the kindlyinnkeeper to make some calls for me to help me track downIvar. A number from the phone book in Porto Maurizio turnedout to be Ivar's parents. Pretty soon Ivar and I were on thephone.

In our first contact in 21 years, I learned that he isa professsor of mathematics, president of a large softwareconsortium and lives in the city of Cosenza in Calabria --mafia country. He was so surprised and pleased by the callthat at some points he just said my name and laughed withjoy. (Or maybe he remembers me differently than I imagine.)At any rate, he had named his first of three children afterme, he said. Marco. The happiness was mutual. We scheduleda lunchtime reunion in Rome Friday.

Lee called Lynsay to make sure we weren't missed.Righteo.

Actually, Lynsay purposefully avoided dampening ourvacation joy by not telling us that she had had to puther beloved cat, Billy, to sleep the day after we leftWashington. Sudden and unexpected, Billy's death left herbroken-hearted and kittiless.

Unaware of Lynsay's sad loss, we headed out to dinner atthe Delfino restaurant. I had pesto and scampi, which wasgood, but not quite comparable to what I had at II Pitisforothe night before. Lee had penne ai fruiti di mare. I triedto leave her in peace with her meal, but I couldn't entirelyhelp myself. Her dish was the best I ever had.

Lots of wine. Feeling good allover.

NOTES: Our first beautiful day. Sunny and warm.

DAY 8: ARRIVING IN SAN GIMIGNANOTUESDAY MAY 16We bid a fond farewell to lovely Portofino this morning.

Drizzled on us as an expression of contempt for ourdeparture. Telling us with its cool droplets and grey skywhat fools we were for leaving Eden.

But we're slaves to our schedule.By lunchtime we were slurping down pizza in Pisa. And

damned good pizza it was. The best meal I ever had. Sat attables outside La Buca, a quaint little trattoria set rightin the glide path of the famous leaning bell tower, shouldit happen to fall. It loomed precariously above us as weate, perhaps hurrying our consumption; which is normallyquicker than lightening anyway. But Lee's tomato andprosciutto pizza truly was extraordinary and may have beenpart of the reason our food disappeared so fast. My calzonewas excellent, also. Wine was light, refreshing. Hiccup.Afterward, the leaning twin towers of Pisa no longer seemedso slanty. I guess we were.

On to San Gimignano, a medieval town that began as twoseparate villages around the 700s. Became a unified walledcity sometime around 1000. Anyway, we'll call it an 11thcentury walled city. Today, it's entirely brick and stoneand crawling with German tourists. They thronged from thestone work and flooded the foreground of every pictureI attempted.

Of the 72 original bell towers that made the placefamous, only 14 have survived. On the bright side, thatmeans there's less danger of some tourist-bashing Quasimodoheaving boiling oil onto you from 150 feet up. Pigeons arestill a threat, though.

Tried to get overnight accommodations at the CasanovaPescille, a quaint farm house hotel a few kilometers outsideSan Gimignano's walls. But it was "completo" (full). So weremost of the hotels inside the city (all those Germans).Finally, Lee, relying on her Italian, which proved .excellent, got us a room in Bel Soggiornio, which turned outto be delightful. Room done in glorious peach colors. Quaintlittle tub with a seat in it. outside, magnificant stone-work. Great shuttered windows looking down onto the mainfootpath into the city. And the cost was less than lunchin Portofino. (still a small fortune.)

Dinner at La Griglia. Incredibly well restored brick andstone interior with marble floors and high ceilings. Seatedin front of a picture window. The stunning view made usforget Porto fino for the moment.

Red-tiled roofs of the village in the foreground.Alternating vineyards and olive tree orchards create anundulating checkered quilt of pale yellow-green hillstops.The classic pleated Tuscan tableau. We felt eerily as if wehad been thrust somehow into the landscape depicted on thelabel of a giant Chianti bottle.

Consumed the contents of one during the coarse of dinner.I had spaghetti with white truffles (the best I'd ever had)and Lee had Salade Nicoise. Also, dessert. It was all sogrand and we were feeling so good allover that we even

forgot for the moment about the 54,000 lire parking ticketwe got upon arriving in town (about $35).NOTES: A bit chilly. Alternating clouds and sunshine allday. Drizzling in evening. Hotel: Bel Soggiorno, 91 via SanGiovanni, 53037 San Gimignano, Tuscany, tel 05 77/940.375.

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DAY 9: VISITING FLORENCEWEDNESDAY MAY 17Today we ventured to Florence in the pouring rain to

experience the best in Renaissance art. But it will be longremembered by us as The Infamous Day of Bad Food in Italy.Bad food experiences in Italy?

It started on the most inauspicious of notes: withhorribly diluted hotel coffee that was nothing more thanopaque water. Thin even by American standards. It would havegiven Sanka a bad name. The first bad coffee we'd had sincearriving in Europe.

Then we drove through the rain to Florence. By the timewe parked at the train station the weather was alreadyclearing. We immediately lit out on foot for some excep-tional coffee and pastries. Purely medicinal. Restored ourfaith in Italy.

On to see the grand Duomo of Florence, includingbaptistery, towers, ancient cathdrals and, last butcertainly not least, all of its great leather shops.

Then to the Galleria Dell'Academia to see Michelangelo'sDavid. It looked shockingly like the life-size replicas yousee elsewhere in Florence.

Afterward, we ordered pizza at a touristy cafe. Whatwe got were slices of cardboard drenched in olive oil.Actually, the crust wasn't bad. However, the pizza wasfloating in olive oil. Two thumbs down.

After the abominable lunch, we snuck past the greatUffizi museum hoping the culture police wouldn't notice.Crossed the river on the Ponte Vecchio, the city's oldestbridge (14th century), now laden with jewelry shops.

Climbed the steep hillside on the far side of the riverto the perch known as piazzale Michelangelo, a perfectvantage for looking out over the rooftops of the city andhills beyond. Enough parking to accommodate any number oftour buses, sadly.

Back to San Gimmy for our second and final night there.Dinner at the cisterna restaraunt was marred by incompetentservice provided by a waitress who didn't realize her ownineptitude, or simply was too proud to acknowledge it.

My primo piato of egg noodles and white truffles was thebest I'd ever had. But Lee had ordered asparagus-filledtortelloni with truffle sauce and got tortellini in chickenbroth instead. Not bad, but no substitute for what sheordered.

waitress waived us off when we questioned the order.Stupid Americans.Oh well. We can put up with anything.But then she presented us with a bill that listed the

more expensive order of asparagus tortelloni that Lee nevergot rather than the bowl of soup she was served. When wepointed this out to the waitress, she muttered somethingabout the kitchen having made a mistake. What about her?The Twit. No mention by her of our earlier effort to sether straight when there was still time to make things right.

Ah well. Off she goes to correct the bill. Comes backwith the asparagus tortelloni still on it, expecting us not

to notice, I guess. After I made a fuss, she headed offagain. By this point, some other diners in the restaurantwere looking on, quite amused. Eventually things got squaredaway, but by then the waitress was barely civil in herdealings with us. No thanks or good night, for sure. Andall this warm Italian hospitality didn't come cheap.

Surly service in Italy came as no great surprise. Butwe're still marveling over the watery coffee in the morning.Was it a bad dream or a long overdue culinary come-uppance?

NOTES: Alternating clouds and sunshine.

DAY 10: VISITING MONTERIGGIO, SIENNA AND ARRIVING IN TOOlTHURSDAY MAY 18Our last morning in San Gimignano. We collected our

laundry and did a little shopping. Lee's Italian is stillgetting us around. Paid off the 54,000 lire parking ticketand departed for Monteriggio, Siena and Todi.

Monteriggio is smaller and quieter than San Gimignano.Sort of a one-horse medieval town. Gently rolling poppyfields lie beyond its stone walls. We had excellent coffeeand pan forte at a small cafe surrounded by German artstudents trying to draw the village's stone church.

The centuries-old church had extraordinary color,including some lovely pale orange blocks. From my vantage,I could see the art students' mixed results. Some were goodrenderings. others were bollixed horribly. In defense of thestudents, consumption of beer could have been a factor forsome. It's also possible that not even Italy's gloriousscenery can inspire artistry in Germans. Ought to stickto building luxury sedans and Zeppelins.

On to Siena with its brilliant orange-gold roof tiles andworld famous piazza del Campo. An immense fan-shaped plazathat slopes gently upwards as it moves away from its base.It's like an outdoor amphitheater without chairs. Made ofbrick and stone. Ringed by shops and cafes. Students,tourists and others sit Indian style on the brick and stone,eating lunch, people-watching or simply zoning out on themedieval beauty of the immense cathedral overlooking theCampo.

On a note completely unrelated to beauty of any- descrip-tion, we saw Congressman Howard Berman and his wife, Janis.Although I've known them for ages, we didn't say hello. Wewere in hot pursuit of lunch.

Lee had a panino caldo. She ate it sitting on the Campo,shielding the toasted-ham-and-cheese delight from my grubbyfingers. Not to worry. I did get a block of stale bread fromanother tourist family that took pity on me. (Actually,I had two slices of mushroom pizza. Excellent.)

Ciao, Siena.Andiamo, Todi.Ah, breathtaking.And I'm just talking about our hotel bathroom.Checked into the Fonte Cesia, a four-star with all the

trimmings. Lifestyles of the rich and famous for us for onenight. Staff lovely. Hotel grand. setting magnificent. Veryreasonably priced. And we're off for dinner at a restaurantnoted for its tartufo dishes. While I was terribly exhaustedand cranky driving into town, now I'm fully revived andpositively floating.

Before dinner, we went for a walk and saw a splendidsight. Todi at sunset. Perched atop one of Umbria's highermountains, the picturesque medieval town towers over thesurrounding countryside. Gazing out at the panorama, weseemed almost eye level with the setting sun. Clouds splitits golden rays into giant spider legs that illuminatedpatches of the receding landscape.

A perfect prelude to a truffle dinner. The town is famous

for its black truffles. For me, this is as close as it getsto a real pilgrimage. And we have the perfect restaurant inmind.

Ristorante Cavour's tables aren't set with starchednapkins, a welcome change of pace for us. It's atmosphereis pleasantly informal. And the truffle dishes are to diefor. At the risk of turning our waitress' stomach, weordered tartufo bruschetta (toasted bread with black trufflespread) followed by tartufo tortellini.

Truffles on the dessert menu, too! Ecstasy. Naturally, Iordered some. But the waitress brought me some stupid littlepieces of chocolate by mistake. (Just kidding. This is whatpasses for humor among truffle-lovers.)

Ah, good sleep followed.

NOTES: Pretty day, alternating clouds and sunshine.Hotel Fonte Cesia, 3 Via Lorenzo Leonj, 06059 Todi, Umbria,tel 075 89 43 737

DAY 11: ARRIVING IN ROMEFRIDAY MAY 19Toodled around Todi in the morning. Awesome natural and

manmade beauty. Some of the most beautiful stone work we'veseen. Every time we think we have no more breath left tolose, we turn a corner and lose a little more.

It was a day we would finally arrive in the eternal cityof Rome with its 2,000-year-old ruins and renaissancesplendor. And a day I would be reunited with my best friendin college after 21 years. But its most electric momentactually occurred earlier, while we were gassing up at aservice station outside Rome.

It was there that we discovered one of Italy's trulymarvelous achievements. It was an ordinary-looking vendingmachine. But it spit out good thick espresso and cappuccinofor a mere 500 lire per Dixie cup.

After loading up on gas, espresso and cappuccino, weheaded on to Rome. Got lost finding our way into the cityand squabbled like brats. But we eventually got there andfound a good illegal parking spot at the base of the SpanishSteps. We were to meet Ivar and his girlfriend, Rosanna, atthe top.

While Ivar was sure we'd recognize each other, it was agood thing we took the precaution of exchanging descriptionsor we never would have spotted each other. Neither of uslook anything like what we did when we were 21. Ah, theravages of middle age.

But it was a joyous reunion. Ivar and Rosanna took us fora glorious lunch at Ristorante delIa Rampa, just off to theside of the Spanish Steps. Incredible antipasta bar andafterward I had the best dessert of my life: semi-freddo.It was a rich mocha-flavored ice cream imbedded with bitsof orange and nuts. Sweet warm chocolate poured over thetop. Rosanna had two. And such a little thing she is. Butshe has her priorities set right. And she even claims to bea competent finder of white truffles. Uses her bare eyes.

I also learned an important life lesson from Ivar andRosanna. I got a withering look of bemusement from her afterordering cappuccino to go with my dessert. Apparently, onlywitless American geeks order cappuccino after breakfast. InItaly, milk is a morning thing, Ivar explained.

They are modern Italians. As a nation, they've given uptheir paint brushes and chisels for cellular phones. Ivarand Rosanna each carried one in their briefcases. It wasn'tlong before their phones were resting on the table, at theready. And ringing constantly, it seemed.

Throughout lunch, they were yelling "Pronto" and "Ciao"into their phones. Rosanna even took notes in her pocketorganizer during one call.

When I explained to Ivar that I!ve been writing aboutimmigration for the last couple of years, his eyes lit upand he explained that Rosanna was an immigrant. Her familyhad crossed the narrow Adriatic Sea from Albania. I wasreminded of the ship that crossed the Adriatic on a hotsummer day a few years ago with 17,000 Albanian immigrants.In a remarkable scene, they waded ashore onto an Italian

beach, stunning the Italian beach-goers and setting offan effort to halt the massive uncontrolled immigration fromAlbania. It was a galvanizing moment for the anti-immigrantforces in Italy and led to more restrictive policies.

"Oh, when did your family come to Italy?" I asked."In the 14th century," she said.Seriously. What does that make the Daughters of the

American Revolution?We took some hurried photos after lunch and Ivar and

Rosanna headed off for the airport for their return flightto Calabria.

When Lee and I got back to the car we discovered thatsomeone had broken into the trunk and taken two pieces ofluggage. Fortunately for us, they took the wrong two bags.They grabbed my suitcase with only my clothes and Lee'sovernight bag, which had cosmetics and toiletries. Anuisance, but of relatively little value and easilyreplaced.

After checking into the Tiziano Hotel, we headed offto return the rental car, which didn't prove so easy. Wescrambled frantically through Rome's afternoon rushhourtraffic, trying to get from Point A to Point B, a distanceof a mere half mile or so. But we were constantly blocked byone-way streets and impassible mazes of piazzas with smallstreets that gradually became too narrow for our car and hadno way out. We spent more time trying to traverse the halfmile or so than some convicted murderers spend behind bars.

Afterward, we walked to the foreigners office of thepolice station to report the theft from our trunk. Italianbureaucrats. A lady had us sit down next to the photocopymachine and fill out the form twice so there'd be twocopies. Meanwhile, she chatted amiably with another officersitting idly at her side. After studying the two completedforms, she handed them back to me and told me to give themto the (very bored looking) officer sitting an arms lengthfrom her leafing through a newspaper. He suddenly made abig show of looking preoccupied with official business.Eventually, he looked up, took the forms from me, stampedthem and gave one back to me for our insurance company.Off we went.

Lee noted that her impression of Rome was rapidly goingdownhill.

No such thing as a one-stop American-style drug storehere. We had to go to a profumeria to get some of Lee'sitems, a pharmacia for others, an optica for yet others.It gave Lee plenty of oppportunity to practice her Italianand she finally got what she needed to get through theremainder of the trip.

I decided I could make do with the clothes I was wearingplus a few articles of mine that were in Lee's suitcase.

We went to dinner in a cafe in the piazza housing the2,000-year-old Pantheon. But Lee was feeling nauseous andtired and no doubt a little demoralized. So she didn't eatmuch. Certainly wasn't enjoying herself. So we headed backto the Tiziano for bed, hoping tomorrow would be better.

NOTES: Mostly clear all day, nice and comfortable.Hotel Tiziano, 110 Corso Vittorio Emanuele II, 00186 Rome,tel 68 65 019

DAY 12: TOURING ROMESATURDAY MAY 20I got up for an early walkabout, spending most of the

time on a bridge over the Tiber hoping to get a shot of thevatican dome in good early-morning light. After about 40minutes, it finally dawned on me that I had missed the goodearly-morning light by at least two hours.

Back to collect Lee. She made a remarkable recovery ofspirit overnight, largely due to the fine weather in themorning. Showing her resilience and grit. A true trooper.

We had a breakfast of coffee and croissants at a sidewalkcafe off piazza Navona en route to st. Peter's square andthe basilica. Inside, we saw Michelangelo's Pieta. It'ssomething Lee in particular was looking forward to seing inperson. Unfortunately, it's protected behind hardened glassafter being attacked by a mad hammer-wielding pilgrim a fewyears ago.

The Basilica is gilded and filled with sculptures andmurals throughout. Sunlight shone in slanted rays throughglass atop the main dome. In one corner, people queued upto touch the toes of an ebony sculpture of st. Peter. Histootsies were rubbed to a nub. A strange ritual of luck forthe pilgrims, I suppose. Maybe they all rushed out afterwardand bought lottery tickets.

In another corner, other pilgrims and Japanese touristslined up to Baptise themselves from a small fountainprotected (poorly) by two cupids.

Later in the day, we visited the Colosseum. Also saw theremains of Trajan's market and forum. We bought two picturesfrom an artist committing vagrancy on the Palatine Hill,where we also played with a feral kitty. Stopped for anafternoon cocktail at the Hotel Forum. We were attracted toit by the rooftop dining area, which we spotted from thestreet. But it wasn't open for drinks, only at lunch anddinner, alas. Nonetheless, it was nice wetting our whistlein the hotel bar and resting our tired feet.

In the evening, we went to a restaurant in piazza delParadiso, only a stone's throw from the hotel, thank God.Costanza, made of stone and timbers with low ceilings, hasa feel of great antiquity. And no wonder. It's in thecatacombs of the 2,000-year-old theater of Pompey, whereBrutus bushwhacked his good friend Julius Ceasar a few yearsback.

Lee had insalata mista followed by artichoke ravioli andamused herself by watching a gorgeous young Italian manutterly ignore the entreating touches of a woman seated athis table. I was facing Lee and a stone wall and amusedmyself with splendid tartufo crepes and lots of Chianti.Molto bene. Creme brulee and tiramisu for dessert. Thewaiter was witty, spirited and charming; the food sublime;and the ambiance unique and historical.

Because of inclement evening weather, a long day oftouring, a delicous meal and Chianti-induced fatigue, weheaded directly back to the hotel after dinner for well-earned slumber.

NOTES: Lovely sunny day, warm and comfortable.

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DAY 13: A RAINY DAY IN ROMESUNDAY MAY 21A day of heavy rain. Would have been a fine day for

touring Noah's Ark. We grabbed our umbrellas, determinednot to waste a day in Rome. Few others were out. Even thepigeons. But we were out splashing through empty piazzas,past closed shops, over slippery cobblestone, beneath soggyumbrellas. We finally struck a compromise with the weather,having our lunch inside the plastic sidewalk enclosure atCafe de Paris on busy Via Veneto.

The waiter bilked us shamelessly after serving usomelets, gelati, wine and coffee. But it was relaxing,pleasant and we were able to stay dry while eating outdoors.

Finally, we returned to the hotel for what the weatherreally intended all along, a leisurely daytime nap. Later,we got up refreshed and headed off to Le Streghe, an inti-mate family-run restaurant amid antique shops on vicolo delCurato, off piazza Navona. It was another memorable tartufonight. Lee had fettucine tartufo. I had a tartufo three-dishcombination -- fettucine, tortellini and ravioli.

NOTES: Rainy and chilly all day. Cleared about 7:00

DAY 14: THE CISTINE CHAPEL AND CAPUCHIN CRYPT:MONDAY MAY 22The rain has lifted. Not a cloud in the sky for our last

full day in Rome and the last full day of our vacation. Wehad a late breakfast in piazza Navona and then headed offto the vatican to see the Cistine Chapel.

The chapel adjoins the basilica, but we had to wait 20minutes for a bus, then ride for 10 minutes through theVatican grounds, and walk for 20 more minutes throughVatican hallways packed with fellow pilgrims.

Lucky for Renaissance art lovers like ourselves, thehallways' walls and ceilings were adorned with antiquities,frescoes and other masterpieces. Lee spent quite a whilestudying the huge, ancient wall maps in the aptly namedGallery of Maps, which showed all the provinces of the once-vast Holy Roman Empire. She retraced our steps of the pasttwo weeks on the maps.

The frescoes depicted virtually every magic moment ofChristiandom's history. But mostly the positive moments,like people being beatified. I looked carefully but neversaw any of your odd beheading or burning at the stake orlesser tortures. Not even an itty bitty persecution. Thosefrescoes must be in hallways on the more expensive tour.

Getting into the cistine Chapel was a lot like gettinginto the lady's room at RFK stadium during halftime of aRedskins game. But we finally got there and it was everybit as gratifying, I'm sure. Mind you, it's not a place forthose who are afraid of large crowds in dark, confinedplaces with no obvious exits; or for those who suffer fromvertigo when staring straight up at high places; nor is itfor sinners like myself prone to spasms of guilt-inducedfear when staring at a larger-than-life depiction of Christsitting in judgment over like-minded damned souls ofyesteryear. Also, I wouldn't recommend it for those withserious back problems who therefore couldn't enjoythemselves being jostled while limboing to view ceilingfrescoes.

Fortunately, neither Lee nor I suffer from any of theaforementioned deficiencies and we enjoyed ourselvesimmensely. But even great bladders have their limits andours were being sorely tested after the remarkable Odysseyjust to get inside the chapel. So we were forced to leavesooner than we would have liked, given the historical scopeof the artwork.

We hopped into a cab and headed straight for the SpanishSteps, where sinners like ourselves can enjoy lunch in theirown element. At a busy sidewalk cafe, I ordered a bitterorange to wash down my food. I didn't have the foggiest ideawhat it was. But the menu said it was only 1,600 lire, about$1. What's the worst that could happen? Right? Well, it wasorange juice, grenadine, tonic and vodka, judging by thetaste. And it went down smoothly. But I must have misreadthe menu. It wasn't 1,600 lire, it was 16,000 (about $10).Those Italian zeros are bloody hard to keep track of.

Hiccup.Then, on to the last sightseeing stop of our trip. In all

candor, it was at my insistence that we visited the capuchinCrypt. Lee had expressed her doubts. And she may have beenright. But I just had to see it anyway.

We were greeted at the door by a dour and goulish-Iookingbut honest-to-God Capuchin monk with his hand out. He madeit clear with a gesture that the phrase "donationsrequested" over the door meant, loosely interpreted, "Handover all your loot."

Fearful of his mortician's countenance and mindful ofwhat lay beyond, I stuffed in a 10,000 lire note and hopedit was enough to avoid offending him. Afterall, it was lessthan what I had paid for the bitter orange, but he didn'tknow that. He peered at my offering and paused for aneternal second. Was it enough? My mind flashed back to thegreat wall of the cistine Chapel and the depiction of thedamned. Much to my relief, when the monk looked up, he wassmiling. Dropped his hand to let us pass.

We entered quickly, eager to find what we had come tosee. It was all there. Crypt chambers decorated entirelywith the skulls, pelvic bones, femurs, clavicals and otherboney remains of the monk's Capuchin predecessors. One daysoon, perhaps, the skull of the Capuchin monk playing trollat the door would be added to the macabre display.

The featured item in one of the chambers was a child'sintact skeleton nailed to the ceiling. Another featuredmummified arms, crossed nonchalantly. In another room,skulls were piled high. There's absolutely nothing moreawe inspiring than an attractive, thoughtful arrangement ofhuman bones.

Exiting, the monk at the door flashed me a sardonic smilethat would have delighted Alfred Hitchcock. Perhaps herecognized in my face the mixture of repulsion and curiositythat he no doubt sees all the time on the faces of otherdeparting pilgrims.

I couldn't bring myself to ask, but I wanted to know: Didthey let time separate flesh from bone naturally? Or do theyhave some late-night, candle-lit ritual performed to organmusic in which they accelerate the process. Perhaps byparboiling the remains in huge black kettles. And if so, howmuch of a "donation" would we have to cough up to see that?

Anyway, later we had a dinner of spinach and spaghetti(Lee) and brandy-soaked beef (me) at Roma Vecchio in thepiazza di Campitelli. We were seated in a little two-table(four-person) alcove, which we had to ourselves. Veryprivate and romantic with flowers and candles. Dinner wellprepared and graciously served.

The only tartufo on the menu was for dessert.Tired again, we headed back to the hotel and packed for

our early-morning cab ride to the airport and return home.We're ready. We have begun to really miss our house andanimals and other loved ones.

And the Capuchin monks have given me some excellent home-decorating ideas.

NOTES: Another lovely sunny d y.