Eternal Longing

One of the reasons for being Grandmaster Funk lately is the sinking realization that, for the first time in over a decade, I probably won't be returning to my favorite place in the entire universe this fall. (No, not Fabulon!) For the past 13 years, it's been a twice-yearly tradition to visit Rome: the Eternal City.



Like so many gaylings, I fell in love with Rome via the movies: watching Audrey Hepburn zip around on a Vespa with Gregory Peck hanging on for deal life was a huge early influence. It's funny; even back then, Paris held much less appeal for me, even in its glamorous, Hollywood-ized idealization. Of course, I eventually did get to Paris, and I loved it; but Italy, and Rome in particular, has always had a strange hold on my imagination and senses.



I think it has to do with the ease and warmth of the Roman lifestyle. In their own distinct ways, the Parisians and the Romans are equally stylish; but the crucial differences are that, in Rome, the men are more impeccably turned-out than the women, and the seemingly effortless style they exude is in contrast with the sometimes-brittle elegance of the French.

My first trip to Rome was when I was 19; it was, of course, a tremendously exciting experience. I had been overseas once before, the previous year, to London. But this would be my first time experiencing a truly different environment. I was set to be in Rome for 7 days; on my first night, I began feeling ache-y and worn down. I assumed that it was the jet lag. The following morning, I went to the Vatican Museum, and midway through the tour, I nearly fainted. (Drama queen to the max!) I was rushed back to my hotel, and for the next 4 days, I was bedridden, alternating between absolute exhaustion and delirium -- at one point, I started hallucinating that I was floating above my body. My temperature soared to 104 degrees, and I finally, weakly, called the concierge and asked for an English-speaking doctor to be sent to my room.

He was tall, handsome, charming and -- of course -- impeccably turned out in a suit and tie. To this day, I still remember his gorgeous camel's hair overcoat and alligator doctor's bag. He cheerfully examined me, making small talk all the while, and, when it was all through (it turned out I had a double whammy of sinusitis and tonsilitis), pulled up a chair beside my bed and chatted for about 20 minutes while the hotel sent for my prescription. Try getting that from an American doctor! To this day, I remember his kindness in reassuring me and making me feel as comfortable as possible -- if you've ever been ill in a foreign country, you know how terrifying that can feel.

Thankfully, the pills started kicking in within 24 hours (Mama's awake!), and on my last day in Rome, I was determined to see and do everything. And I did. I saw the Colosseum. I saw the Pantheon. I saw the Fountain of Trevi. I saw the Mouth of Truth. I bought gelato from a street vendor near the Spanish Steps. I bought a pair of brown Dolce & Gabbana cigarette pants that I would kill to find again! Basically, I did Roman Holiday, and was absolutely exhilirated by it all. I wanted to greedily soak all of Rome up in a day, just in case I never saw it again. But in the back of my mind, I knew I would. I was in love.


FIRST ROMAN HOLIDAY, 1995

Since then, there hasn't been a year when I haven't returned. It's like going home. I stay at the same hotel, browse through the same shops, eat at the same restaurants. And, unlike here in New York, the service, retail and hospitality industries in Rome are not mere holding stations for actors/models/artists biding their time until their agent calls. They're time-honored professions, and I'm genuinely thrilled to see the same people every time I go back; and, for what it's worth, they seem to be genuinely happy to see me.

My favorites?

The barmen at my hotel, who are the funniest, most charming men on the planet, and who unfailingly spot me arriving for the first day of my visit clear across the lobby at 10 a.m., bound over for hugs and handshakes, and winkingly, half-jokingly ask, "Ready for your first Beefeater martini?"

The proprietress/hostess/waitress of a small, family-run ristorante who cries with affectionate greeting when I come back; who remembers that I love the tiny polpette (and keeps them coming for the entire meal); who remembers that pasta with fresh zucchini flowers is my best friend/favored traveling companion's favorite dish; who received a call that her mother had passed away during the course of one of my visits to the restaurant, and then came to apologize for not staying for the duration of my meal.

The adorable salesmen at one of the boutiques on the glamorous Via Condoti, who love to chat and gossip and ask about "Chelsea town" in New York; and who know, sometimes better than I, what I like to wear, and have racks of their choices ready and waiting.

And lest you think that I'm some hotshot V.I.P., let me reassure you that I travel economy, don't have a personal assistant calling ahead of time, and am -- rumors to the contrary -- an extremely low maintenance traveler. It took me years to figure out that it wasn't out of line to ask the concierge to, say, make dinner reservations; I just thought, if it's something so simple that you can do yourself, why on earth would you have someone else do it for you? So that's why I appreciate the gestures and friendliness even more; I really do think it's genuine, not for show, or done out of obligation.



2006

Of course, I love so much more about Rome: the beauty of the city itself; its wholly unique juxtaposition of the ancient with the modern; the absolutely wonderful food; and, of course, the men.



In the best possible sense, Rome never really changes. So I know it will be just as it was when I eventually go back next year (I grabbed those Orbitz fares for March the minute I saw them). And, God knows, there are a billion and one worse dilemmas than not making it to Rome for the umpteenth time. But I miss it so much, I ache. For the few days that I'm there, it almost feels as if I'm living someone else's life -- or, more accurately, a really heightened version of my own. And that's what a truly magical vacation destination should do, whether your idea of paradise is a tropical isle, a wooded cabin or la dolce vita. On my last visit, this past March, I didn't take any photographs at all. I was afraid that it might be my last visit for a long time, and in an odd way, I didn't want to document it for posterity. I wanted to hold and visualize the memories almost internally. I can still taste the food I ate on that trip. Does that sound strange?

Life can be a drudge. We all need total escape sometimes. In a very small way, that's what I try to recreate on here from time to time -- the same feeling of escapism that I have when I'm on holiday. Thanks for letting your self-indulgent blogger vent a little. I'm going to go watch Roman Holiday now.