Theo Invades the Trevi Fountain

 We are so lucky to find that our hotel--Hotel Delle Nazioni--is literally one block from Rome's famous Trevi Fountain. You make a left out of our hotel, walk down the street and enter a square. The 18th century fountain is behind you, in all its magnificence, spouting cool water, surrounded by historic buildings. 

"Let's just stand here and pose," I tell Dan. "I can't believe we're really here."

Designed by Italian architect Nicola Salvi, the fountain was built with Travertine stone in 1762 by Giuseppe Pannini. It is almost 90 feet high and 160 feet wide, making it the largest Baroque style fountain in Rome, and one of the most famous in the world. 

The fountain was built at the end point of an aqueduct that supplied water to Rome. Supposedly a virgin long ago helped Roman technicians locate a source of pure water eight miles from the city. The aqueduct supplied water to Rome for over 400 years. 

The name "Trevi" comes from two Italian words "Tre vie" meaning three streets. The fountain is located in the intersection of three streets. It has been refurbished, repaired and renovated throughout the centuries.

The larger than life figure that dominates the statue behind the fountain is Oceanus, a Titan God, who represents the source of all fresh water on the Earth.

There are usually hundreds of people milling around the square, staring at the fountain, eating their gelato or paninis (Italian sandwiches) or sipping their cool drinks. The noise level can be deafening when you add in the sound of the fountain. 

It is a sight to see and hear. When we first arrive, we rush to see it amidst the throngs of tourists that are there. Theo takes one cat glance and can't seem to get enough. I know he wants to get closer, and I suspect, drink the water. But that is definitely not allowed.

Everyone seems to know the rules. You can throw coins in the fountain and most tourists do, believing that if you throw a coin in the fountain, you will return to Rome one day. Technically, you should throw the coin with your right hand across your left shoulder while you are facing away from the fountain for the magic to work. 

(One day a week, early in the morning, the fountain is turned off and crews arrive to dredge out the coins in the bottom of the fountain. The coins go to charity. Approximately 3,000 E ($3300) are thrown into the fountain each day which leads to a tidy sum at the end of the year.)

There is a sign not so clearly posted listing all the things you can't do. You must stand near it and squint to read the warnings. The gist of all the do nots are:

Do not eat food too close to the fountain. 

Do not bathe or swim or remove water from the fountain.

Do not clean your clothes or wash your pets in the fountain.

Do not throw anything but coins into the fountain.

Do not remove the coins from the fountain. 

Violators face a hefty fine ranging from 40E to 240E ($44 to $270).

Knowing the world like I do, I know that each do not is a result of someone trying to do it--in the fountain. I march Theo over to the sign and spell out all the warnings. I'm no dummy. All that water splashing downward and all the birds flying around angling to reach that water is like catnip to Theo.

Dan is thinking like I do. "Can we trust him?"

"Absolutely not."

"Yeah, I'll keep ahold of him."

Ha. Easier said than done. When Dan has his I phone with him, all he wants to do is take photos--which is impossible when he's holding Theo. After a few minutes, down Theo goes.  And he's off . . .we lose him in the crowd. 

"He's headed for the fountain."

Sure enough, he's slipping and sliding through the crowds with every intention of climbing onto the edge, leaning over and drinking that water.

Violation!!! He will be sure to attract attention. A crowd will gather around him. I can picture it now. I can hear the chanting: "Drink, Theo, drink."

The carabinieri (Italian police) will arrive and we will be fined--big time.

That nightmare doesn't happen. And I am oh so wrong, according to the gangster cat. Theo just wants to get a better look at the water. That's his story as Dan carts him away. 

"Theo, how could you?"

He glances back at me. "I do what I have to do."

A cat is a cat is a cat. No doubt about it.

Theo Scavenges Cacio e Pepe

 If you land in Rome, the meal you must order and eat and then, like a miracle, become a fan is Cacio e Pepe. It is a simple dish: pasta, Pecorino Romano cheese (finely grated so that it can melt and becomes a smooth sauce), sprinkled with pepper, ground from peppercorns and sometimes toasted. Oh, did I mention there's a creamy sauce? It is delicious.

For our first dinner in Rome, we order the Cacio e Pepe and lasagna. (We are never on a diet in Italy.) We're not worried about Theo. 

In our hotel room, Theo has already eaten. In Italian--he has a scodella (bowl) filled with croccantini al gusto di pesce (a crunchy dried food, flavored with fish. In this case, Theo always prefers tuna. So, he is a well-fed cat. 

Our waiter is lovely. We desperately want to practice our Italian and, we discover, our waiter wants to practice his English. So, we have a curious conversation together. We speak Italian to him and he responds in English. It suits both our needs. 

Our table, practically in the middle of a crowded Italian side street is the perfect place to people watch. Thousands of tourists stream by, even though we purposefully choose a restaurant not near the Trevi Fountain where we're staying. Still, Rome is a big draw for tourists who are looking for good food and a jaunt through history, and the town is alive tonight.

Theo is amazingly well-behaved until he isn't. He ignores the chattering tourists and, I think he ignores our food. We literally gorge ourselves, enjoy every bite, totally unaware that Theo, who is resting under our table, is busy plotting his next move.

Dan jumps up from our table before we're finished eating to grab a photo of the restaurant. I go with him to supervise. (No, we're not very sophisticated. As we're sitting there, we can't believe we're actually here . . . in Rome . . . on a beautiful night . . . eating a delicious meal in a lovely restaurant.) A photo will cement the memory we can't even believe is being made. 

 Theo makes his move. Who knew that a tuna fish loving cat would go for Cacio e Pepe? But the creamy evidence is painted around his mouth.

"Theo!"

The wonderful thing about Italy and Rome is that anything goes. No one is surprised that Theo is on the table eating Cacio e Pepe. I see the woman next to us smile and shrug. Tourists who pass by glance over but they're too busy eating their gelato to look startled.

"No big deal," Dan says in Italian. "No harm done."

"Hai ragione," I respond like a wanna be Italian. (You are right.)

Theo retreats back to his spot under the table, uses his paw to clean his evidence-prone face, and doesn't even look guilty. Rather he looks self-satisfied, satiated. 

What happens in Rome must stay in Rome, I resolve. Well, almost. 

Theo and the Porker in Rome

 We fly into Rome and by good fortune book a room at a hotel one block from the famous Trevi Fountain. The Hotel Delle Nazioni is a "special place." The original structure, including the marble floors, date back to the 1500's. There is a full supermarket down the street--where you can buy yogurt, sandwiches to order, wine, cereal, fresh fruit and cat food at reasonable prices. Our six pack of water cost half a Euro (55 cents.)

We arrive hungry and decide to go out to lunch with Theo at the Cantina Dei Papi. It is quaint, cool inside with one quirky addition which we don't think too much about at the time. A giant pork body is suspended from the ceiling. Another pork body sits on the counter. It is their signature sandwich--porketta and . . . You fill in the blanks. It is an effective marketing tool.

Theo is appalled. He doesn't understand the ways of the world. His credo is simple--animals (all animals) should be treated with respect. That belief explains what happens next. 

Theo is lounging under our table one minute--seemingly affected by jet lag. We are tired, too. Then, with no warning, Theo crouches, leaps across the narrow aisle and aims for the poor porker hanging from the ceiling. He misses. 

The miracle is that Theo lands rather gracefully on the counter directly next to the other porker, but he's so astonished that he missed his target, that he fails to realize what is sitting right beside him.

 He is like the baseball player who faces a tough pitch in the 9th inning. All he has to do is hit the ball, run to first base, and bring his teammates home. He strikes out and then just stands there, paralyzed.

Eventually Theo slinks back under the table. The porker is free to hang there for another day, along with an assortment of other unmentionables that Theo seems oblivious to.

 I think that no one has noticed the leap--not the owner, not the guy who acts as a waiter, not the young girl who makes the sandwiches.

But I'm wrong. A worried owner arrives like magic at the table. Her English is shaky at best. She points to Theo and shakes her head. Her flurry of words--mostly Italian--state unequivocally that a cat has no place in her establishment.

Now, truth be told, Dan and I speak Italian quite well. But we have no explanation for why Theo tried to attack the pork. We have no good reason for why he is even here at all. Service cat? In Italy?

We do the only thing we can think of. We tilt our heads in unison and pretend we don't speak a word of Italian. 

The owner slams the bill on our table and marches away. This is not a good way to begin our lengthy trip in Italy.

"Theo, how could you?" I whisper.

He shrugs but continues to stare at the porker who is hanging there. 

"No, Theo. Control yourself. No excuses. Or it will be Mico who comes with us next time."

"Mico? That rascal? That scoundrel? Mom, you wouldn't."

All this outrage from a gangster cat who couldn't resist the allure of pork and . . . (you fill in the blanks.)