Italian Delights
As we tromped around Rome, all I wanted was to be outdoors. I was enthralled by the trees. All of those maritime pines perked up high on stilt-like trunks with trim, pillbox tops green with cones. Forget the human hordes covering every rise in the Spanish Steps. That messy scene mirrored a Coors Field rock pile when Denver baseball was hot and scores of sweaty fans raised noise and personal-space invasion to new heights of discomfort.
For Morris, each morning's caffeine fix was in mind, but the travel banker (me) didn't want to spring for overpriced American soda.
Morris: "I need a Coke."
Me: "Not at $5 you don't."
Morris: "I can't start the day without my Coke!"
Me: "No Coke. Let's see the botanic gardens."
Morris: "Coke."
Me: "Trees."
Morris won out, but so did I. We skipped the rude minions throwing their coins and spit into Trevi Fountain and traipsed through back streets to discover tiny parks with glorious pines shooting up, up into what pieces of blue sky the tightly-packed old city would allow. I couldn't wait to get home to draw them.