Long before realizing that we forgot to pack such essentials as chargers for various electronics, vitamins for various body parts, and sunglasses, we load our bags into an uber driven by a moonlighting NIH biochemist from Ethiopia who regales us about his pending patents for making and adding natural epoxy he grows in his homeland farm to various investigational new drugs. He’s separated from his wife, who claims he works too much.

The way to Dulles is through a torrential downpour with tornado warnings. But we arrive at gate 4B and, inside the terminal, are led through a cordon by a security guard because David’s left leg is in “the boot” and hobbling is slow and difficult (clomping, clumping, Long John Silver impersonation). The guy who takes our bags is incredibly solicitous and empathetic and gets us a wheelchair and “driver” who whisks us past every line through TSA precheck and bag scan, navigating crowds and dropping us at the Etihad lounge where we order free cocktails and burgers with aioli.

The plane’s captain announces we’ll have a bumpy ride until we start to cross the Atlantic at which point we’ll have smooth sailing. The nautical reference is the only truth because the plane feels like it’s being tossed and buffeted by churning waves for the entire flight. Even the cabin attendants were commanded to sit and strap in. Nine hours later we arrive shaken and stirred and get a wheelchair that comes with Jhonnie the navigator, who bypasses the immigration line, wheels us to baggage claim, gets our bags onto a cart and puts us at the head of the long line for a taxi. Ten euro tip releases an arrivaderchi and our loquacious driver wends 45 minutes through freeways and Rome’s congested and increasingly narrow streets to our third-floor apartment just west of Piazza Navona.

The sun bathes a chalk-white blue sky, men and women in barely buttoned silk outfits stroll along the Via Della Governor and we find a supermarket right across the street and load up on essentials: Tonic for the duty-free Hendricks, eggs and toast for brekky.

Have a cocktail and hobble over cobblestone streets to Piazza Navona — the fountain now a brilliant sparkling white marble, cleaned for the Jubilee. There are crowds but the piazza is not mobbed: a pleasant surprise as we walk through it, take the obligatory tourist selfies, and clomp to our restaurant where we sit next to Dominique, a French architect from Normandy, and his wife. Negroni, Barolo, Linguini Bolognese, and a leisurely hobble back to our apartment. We fall asleep immediately in our very comfortable bed, content we’ll get by without the other essentials we forgot to pack.