When I was last in Rome, I was full of confidence.

I boldly visited fancy bars and restaurants. Alone.

Confidence.

That was December 2019. The horizon seemed endless.

Now it is 2025. The year is more than half over.

I’m scared.

In between there was COVID. 2020. 2021. 2022. 2023. 2024. Part of 2025.

One of the kids on my younger son’s soccer team died suddenly last week. I watched those kids grow up and helped coach them to some great successes. The only positive there was that I was able to find out what’s become of many of the boys. My son shouldn’t have had to go to a friend’s funeral at age 31. But then, I went to one when I was 18.

Once upon a time, I was a Wonder Boy.

My best buddy dropped dead in August 2020.

My last brother passed in April 2021.

Emory never woke up on Christmas Eve 2022.

The horizon is rushing toward me. Hurtling.

Two friends had their mothers pass away this week.

My mom died 48 years ago.

I forgot to honor the 50th anniversary of my dad’s death on July 2, 1975. I guess I was still recovering from injuries and worries of my car wreck in early June.

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/121746632/joseph_thomas-roberts#view-photo=291489032

He and Mom are buried in Arlington National Cemetery. I haven’t visited in a long time. Too busy working.

Life has flown by while I’ve been busy working.

Tempus fugit. The Grim Reaper hovers.

I wonder why I forced myself to return to Italy.

It was a massive undertaking. I overdid everything.

Typical.

When I landed at Fiumicino (airport) about 9 hours ago, I’d been on the road or in the air or on my feet for 24 hours straight. The cab dropped me off at the hotel a couple of hours later. My room wasn’t ready, so I was set up in the beautiful lobby with a cup of coffee. Americano.

“Mr. Roberts, your room is ready. I’ll take you up.”

It was about 2 p.m.

Shower and shave.

Too early to crash, but I was a zombie. I had to head out and do something.

The Capuchin friary was the closest sight. 800 feet away. 250 steps or so.

I dragged my tired bones out of their brief rest.

Onto the baking hot streets of Rome, Italy.

The church entrance is raised up, accessible by a long steep pair of stone stairways.

I’m extremely careful now. No trips. No runovers. No wrecks.

I’ve only been able to go up or down steps like a normal person for a couple of weeks now. (Instead of one foot up and the other follows. Or one foot down and the other descends to the same tread.) The right knee is still a little dodgy.

Up. Up. Up.

Pay the fee. Figure out the audio guide.

The museum, church, horror show begins with some paintings and early books. The history of the Capuchin Order and its mission.

Padre Pio and his stigmata were Capuchins.

They have a Caravaggio of Saint Francis.

Then you come to what everybody comes here for.

We are warning you.

You are cautioned.

And then the altar.

They estimate there are about 3500 skeletons in the five or so tableaux and the one bony chapel.

My numb body and mind were battered by the display.

Artistic.

Architectural.

Apocalyptic.

The message is clear. You may be on the other side of the wrought-iron gates for now, but soon you will cross the threshold and be among those who have passed.

Out the church’s front door. Down the long flight of old stone steps. (Careful! Your legs aren’t quite right. One misstep, and you’ll find out what Italian ERs are like.)

A fat middle-aged beggar woman sat on the curb at the iron gate. She growled when I ignored her importuning for money.

‘You’re far younger than I,’ I thought. ‘Can I buy some of your years?’

Then it was out onto the sun-baked streets of Rome, Italy.

The Barberini National Gallery was only an 8-minute walk. I’d never been there.

The phone couldn’t find the entrance, however.

“You have arrived.”

It was an alley. A dirty dusty private alley.

I wandered the area. I went into a farmacia. I’d forgotten a couple of things.

Suntan lotion.

Stomach meds.

Deodorant…

Then I found it. A big stone palace set back from the street.

I paid my fee.

The maze of galleries was up a long, long flight of stone steps.

“This actually hurts now. I should have my feet up in bed.”

Lots of Renaissance Christian art. Martyrs and Madonnas. Then a number of Caravaggios and his followers.

The images look as alive as they were as living models 400 years ago.

Narcissus?

I can identify with that.

Another fatal flaw. But there are few sins anymore. Faults are glorified.

The Conversion of Saint Paul.

Why do I not know that Bible story?

Then down the long flight of shallow stone steps.

(Careful. One misstep and…)

Was I hungry? I should be.

Would a drink taste good? It has for a lifetime.

I stopped in a cramped shop that passes for a grocery in downtown Rome. I bought a bag of tarallini for 1 euro. These were flavored with caraway seeds. They’re like little hard bread rings. 250 grams. Over half a pound.

A big bottle of water.

Suntan lotion. (I only brought short-sleeve shirts.)

A tiny roll-on deodorant.

Then a long hot walk back to my room.

It was about 5. A nap would be wonderful. Tired. Sore to my bones.

I dozed. Woke. It had been only 20 minutes. Should I get up and go to dinner? I couldn’t bring myself to dress and go down. I dined on tarallini and sparkling wine left as a gift amenity along with a chocolate torte.

(I only had a few bites of the torte.)

6 years ago, I’d be out and about. Sightseeing til it got dark and then visiting a bar or restaurant or two.

I lay in bed and read and wrote the evening away. Sleep was reluctant, but the bed was vast, cottony, cool.

I finally slept. Sometime after midnight. Then I awoke from a golf dream with my great friend Cap.

A couple of women who ran the fancy clubhouse were intrigued about old books… I’d hit the fancy old building with an errant golf shot.

I awoke thinking it might be 4 or 5. When I looked at my charging phone, it was 9.

Friday. I need to finish this. It’s not really started…

An email dropped in late:

Dear Chuck

I hope my email finds you well.

Please find below the sailing schedule for your shipment—the books from [a well-known archaeologist friend of Barbara’s.]

Vessel name: HELLA 530W
Estimated date of departure from port: Rotterdam—25 JULY 2025
Estimated date of arrival to port: New York—9 August 2025

On average, customs clearance and deconsolidation in the US can take 1-2 weeks and once this is completed the expected delivery will be within 2-3 weeks.

Our agent at destination is—Inter Movers LLC. They will contact you upon arrival of the container.

In the meantime, please see attached 2 forms that we need for customs clearance, kindly fill out and send it back signed.

• Form 3299
• Supplemental Declaration

Also can I please get a copy of your passport—it will be required for customs purposes.

I remain at your disposal…

The books are from Switzerland. Her husband passed away some months ago. She wanted me to get them. It will cost a fortune to transport them. I explained all this. Apparently, money was no object. She just wanted her husband’s books to be well taken care of.

I’m a book steward to some. The emotional attachment some people have to their books or a loved one’s books transcends their being inanimate objects.

Sigh… another adventure I hope doesn’t blow up in my face…

I can’t bring myself to rise and go down for the fancy free breakfast. It is 6 years later. Seems like a lifetime. I’m not the same person.

It was a monumental week. A getaway. Of course, I overreacted. Would the place survive without me?

Likely, it will do better without my interference.

A longtime employee handed me this artifact.

Another glow-in-the-dark keyring. She has been here a long time. Maryland phones didn’t need an area code then.

Friday night, I met my son and his family at Founding Farmers for a belated birthday dinner. They serve cornbread in a black cast-iron skillet. My mom used to love that. I do too. It raised Proustian memories. The baby cried constantly and needed to be taken outside a lot. But the two-year-old was a positive charmer.

Saturday was a feat of book work unsurpassed by modern man.

I’m kidding. But I did process a lot of books. By day’s end, my body was aglow with the heat and hard labor.

I found more of the 18th-century medical books.

These are the prettier ones.

Lots of midwifery, pharmacy and what passed for medicine then.

They were original titles like these reprints.

(There were about 70 of these Easton Press-like bindings. I sent them to the internet.)

My wacky nephew arrived about 4. I hadn’t let him visit for a long time. He had a bunch of collectible comics he’d evaluated for us.

Then it was off to Rod Stewart at the Merriweather Post Pavilion. I’d bought good tickets months ago and couldn’t find anyone else to go. The venue has sheltered seating and a vast lawn rising up behind it. The long line waiting to get in had many people holding lawn chairs or blankets to sit on. The skies blackened. We got in just in time. The skies opened. I don’t know what happened to all those people. It rained well into the concert. Maybe they scurried back to the parking garages.

It was a great concert. Rod, at 80, rocked for a couple of hours. He changed outfits four times. (I assume partly from showmanship, but also so he could have brief breaks while his band rocked on.)

His early album, Every Picture Tells a Story, was a favorite when I was a kid.

Those were good times.

It was 1 a.m. before I finally got home with the dogs.

I was in early on Sunday. I felt compelled to push things to a new level. When I had to quit and the lights went off, I’d made my mountain.

I got in extra early on Monday. I’d been too tired to straighten and label all my messes.

I’d cleared a lot of ephemera that had been accumulating for many months.

All that ephemera would be sorted into boxes the next bag. Terry will price them and bag them so they can be hung in the stores.

Then it was down to Gaithersburg. The contractor appeared! He put down a sample patch of gray epoxy paint. Then he sprinkled “flakes” over it. I think it will look great… whenever it gets done.

That evening, I forced myself to do more weed whipping. I took a sprayer filled with deer repellent and walked around the perimeter. With me and the dogs away, they may invade and destroy even more of my beloved hostas.

Too much. Too much. Tuesday.

Wednesday, I leave for Rome.

I’m lounging in bed a bit at 8:30 a.m.

It was a long hot eventful weekend.

Giles is an inert bag of fur and flesh next to me. He has calmed down. Almost too much. I don’t miss his suddenly leaping away at something with the leash wrapped in my hand. I thought he might dislocate my shoulders more than a few times. I learned to tug back. Equal and opposite reactions. Now he enters or exits doors like he’d been taught by Emily Post.

“Shall I go first or you?”

A quiet cool morning finally. The window is open, but the birds are pretty quiet. It feels good to lie here and breathe.

Wednesday

I’m not sure this is such a great idea. After the couple of rough patches in the 9 months, I’m not sure I can handle this stress.

I pushed too hard in the getaway week.

Then the two-hour drive to Philly became 4.

The flight isn’t until after 9. 12 hours, and then I’ll be in Rome at 9. What then? I doubt the hotel will let me in. What then? Wander around like a zombie.

I should be at home in bed. Then tomorrow back in the warehouse like every other day since I work every day except when I’m away.

What a life.

And now the complications.

To live and die with complications.

Maybe I’ll be able to sleep. And maybe I’ll awaken in the morning refreshed.

I don’t think so.

Things have not been like that for a while.

Maybe I’ll know why I’m doing this to myself tomorrow. In Rome.

8:52. I have an aisle seat near the front, so the people filing past bump me with their bags and knapsacks, and I get to whiff their food and booze and body odor smells. The guy next to me is small, thank God.

My day started at 4:30. That was a few hours after leg cramps had my thighs on fire. I took magnesium and drank Propel and eventually they cooled off. I got a lot of reading done. John Dickson Carr. Though I was 200 pages in, I left it at home on the bed. A nice hardcover first edition. It wouldn’t travel well, and it was heavy. I brought two mass markets from the 1970s in its place.

Giles could tell something was up when I plopped the knapsack and empty suitcase on the bed next to him. Merry and Pip were already with their babysitter up in Pennsylvania.

I hadn’t begun to get packed.

Tuesday evening, I went out and whacked weeds again. I’m so far behind in the gardens. My car wreck kept me from manual labor for most of June and a good chunk of July.

Maybe that’s what caused the cramps. I did a few thousand steps around the house. The gardens are very uneven with slopes and rocks. Early Tuesday morning, I had a premonition the landscaper would come and spray the Japanese stiltgrass. It is an invasive species and needs to be controlled lest it go to seed and spread over more land—choking out the native and desirable plants. I knew the redbuds I planted far down the drive were buried in grass and other weeds. He would spray and kill them as sure as shootin’. I put a lot of composted manure into a big plastic tub. I cleared a perimeter around the baby trees. The perimeter got filled with the dark brown manure so the baby trees in the middle would stand out.

It turned out I was right. When I looked up, he was spraying about twenty yards below me. I’d finished my defensive mulching and drove down to him.

“Can I show you something up the hill? That way you can work downhill back to your truck.” I laughed. He laughed.

The real reason was that there were some poison ivy vines and a few strands of Boston ivy that got there… I don’t know how. I don’t want either to spread and take over. It would be great if he could kill them off before they grew and spread any more.

His work will look good when I return. Dead weeds.

Roma. Welcome to Rome. 11:22 a.m. What will the day be like? Exhausted from the marathon getaway day. A night of very little dozing. A shower and a shave would be wonderful. It is 5:22 a.m. at home. Their day is beginning.

There were some testimonials this week.

You are performing a public service by keeping books in circulation. Those of us who love books are obligated to you. I will get my books to your Gaithersburg store on Shady Grove Road. The books are in storage and I will start to make arrangements and will let you know when they will be delivered.

And:

I got my box of picture books today (imagine my relief they got here in time) and then I opened the box and spent 45 minutes of complete bliss, going through them and picturing all the joy they will bring to the two young children in Canada that I got them for.

So many wonderful books that I remembered reading with my daughter decades ago and so many new books that I can hardly wait to read with the kids!

(I had already decided I would wait for the box if it was delayed/late.)

That’s how much we love books!!!

There are not enough words to fully express how much gratitude you have filled my heart with today, by your exceptional customer care service.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for such a wonderful selection of beautiful, clean and endearing books.

I will tell ALL my friends about Books by the Foot and I will buy a box before my every 3 months trip, bc you have made it affordable for me too. Thank you Thank you!

Those are nice.

“Shameless self promotion”: https://www.wonderbk.com/shop/collectors-corner/special-collections-author-archives/wonder-book-merchandise

One of the last books I looked at before I left was this elephant folio set emblazoned “MYTHOLOGY” on its front boards.

It is subtitled “The Siege of Troy.”

I was at Troy in 2024. In Turkey. Seems so long ago.

Now I am in Rome. Founded by Aeneas—Priam’s son—when he fled the conflagration.

The dilemma is what to do with these books. The bindings are shot. The text block is intact. The images are stunning.

Should I break the thing and sell the plates separately? Or try to sell the books “with all faults”?

I’ll see what Annika has to say about its value.

Friday in Rome. July 25th. So much time gone. So much sand has fallen through the hourglass. I can’t see how much is left to drain through.

I guess I’d rather not know.

This is the first story of Year 9 of these.

Maybe I’ll go to the Keats House after I send this off. And later the Protestant Cemetery, where he and Shelley are buried. Burials had to be held at night for non-Catholics—because of the fanatics…

Maybe I’ll reset. It was only six years and a plague ago.