As you know, Wiggles and I are back from our Italian adventure, she in San Francisco and me in New York City. Wiggles’ hair woes aside, it was a fabulous trip, though the next time I say it’s a good idea to go to Rome when it’s 85 degrees every day and you’re surrounded by men in gladiator costumes who want you to pay them to pose for a photo (and we weren’t even near the Colisseum), shoot me. “We who are about to die…” said one to me. Then he forgot the rest of the sentence. “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I salute you.”
Anyway, as I was unpacking all my Italian goodies, I found a hotel-supplied brochure of tours that I had thrown into my suitcase. At first, I couldn’t recall why I had, as I am a firm believer of throwing as much out as possible as often as possible. But then I remembered. The brochure offered a special private tour of Rome’s Jewish district, and here is the first line of the copy, verbatim: “With his narrow streets and his smells, we want to show you another side of Rome where the Jewish Romans still live: The Ghetto.” Ah, the joys of really bad translators.