You. Me. London. Snap.

Upon arrival at Heathrow, we head straight for the nearest coffee bar. You have to admire a cappuccino that comes with a weather report.

(All photos by LBG.)

Yes, it's raining. But really, who cares? We duck into a taxi cab and hurtle instantly into the heady atmosphere of a city that wears its centuries as seamlessly as a Savile Row suit. 

Regent Street is aglow and so are our spirits.

(Heading north on Regent Street.)

My heart is thumping as we pull up to our hotel. I've been wanting to stay here for as long as I can remember. 

It surpasses every expectation. 

"Why yes, I think I will sit down."

I would be perfectly content to curl up in bed and watch "The Great British Bake Off" but Piero and Luca are antsy. We drop our bags and head back out.

We plunge into Piccadilly Circus...

...stumble onto a cheeky tribute to the power of rock and roll on Carnaby Street...

...and meander through the labyrinthine streets of Soho. We pass by Andrew Edmunds, the Tom Thumb-sized Hogarthian restaurant that I wrote about here. It's one of those hush-hush cult haunts (no website, reservations a must) that its patrons want to keep to themselves -- the food is incredible, the prices are good and the atmosphere is nothing less than incandescent.

We take a stroll around Covent Garden. St. Paul's is looking mighty robust for a building that's been wowing people since 1633, don't you think?

And then it's back to the hotel. We have been given a room designed by David Linley and it's a vision of creamy elegance with high ceilings and a curtain treatment that makes me want to take a bow. (Watch David talk about the project here.)

I become a bit fixated with the wall sconces -- love the modern update on the classic "sheaves of wheat" motif.  

And I really don't think you can improve upon these knobs.

In the entry foyer, the framed photograph by Lord Snowdon (David's father) and the red leather umbrella stand give a modern punch to a traditional space.

The bathroom is so perfectly black-and-white that for a brief moment I wonder if my retinas have reverted to monochrome. It's only when I spot the moss green Bamford toiletries that I realize it's just a stunning illusion.

What makes staying at Claridges even more magical is that we're here with a group of friends. On New Year's Eve, we eat dinner at Rules in Covent Garden and the maitre 'd seats the adults at one booth... 

(From L to R: Jeanne Tripplehorn, David Netto, Liz Netto, Leland Orser, Piero Giramonti.)

...and the children at a table around the corner. It's perfect. The children feel liberated and grown-up -- and so do we!

Rules' menu is a marvel of traditional English fare: potted shrimp, oysters from Cornwall, furred and feathered game like hare, venison, partridge and pheasant, and time-honored desserts like sticky toffee pudding with sauce boats of steaming custard.

The next few days rush by. Among the highlights are a trip to the actual Harry Potter Studios which leaves the children, all avid J.K. Rowling fans, gobsmacked...

...a delicious lunch at Daylesford Organic, a favorite of David's, whose slogan is "Straight from our farm to your fork"...

...afternoon tea at Home House, a private members club with 18th century interiors by Robert Adams, with Mary Henley Magill...

...and a tour of Kensington Palace which is fantastic...

...apart from the spooky Princess Diana wallpaper.

And everywhere we turn, gloriously, rivetingly, irrefutably...London.

You. Me. Rome. Snap.

As the taxi cab slides to a halt outside the Hotel Excelsior, Piero, Luca and I unfold our cramped limbs from the back seat and make a woeful attempt to look chic. It has been a long journey and we are, to put it charitably, bedraggled. 

But The Eternal City casts a glittering spell on even its weariest pilgrims.

(Excelsior Hotel, Rome, December 2012. All photos by LBG.)

By the time we head for the elevator a few minutes later, there's a spring in our step and our chins are tilted at a rakish angle. Fatigue be damned. Who could be so unfeeling to let down a lobby that has gone to such effort?

We stroll along the fabled Via Veneto in search of adventure. The streets are empty and our footsteps echo on the cobblestones. Piero hears distant laughter and decides we need to follow it.

We turn a dark corner and run headlong into Harry's Bar, spiritual birthplace of la dolce vita. I know it's probably the wooziness of jet lag, but it suddenly feels like we're in the real-life version of "Midnight in Paris." I swear that's Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg making out in the corner. A ghostly maitre'd (I'm not kidding -- look at him) crooks his finger at us from a golden doorway. Within minutes, we are sipping Bellinis and everything is bene.

The next morning we awake to the tintinnabulation of bells from that church tower on the left...

...and have breakfast in this chic-y McChic downstairs bar. 

After much tarrying on my part --

Me: Just let me sit here for five more minutes.
The Philistines: You said that ten minutes ago.
Me: I would like one more lungo macchiato.
The Philistines: No you would not.
Me: I feel weak.
The Philistines: No you do not feel weak.
Me: But this room is a veritable MASTER CLASS in design, I tell you! Have you NO DECENCY, SIRS?!

-- I am firmly escorted out.

We take a shortcut along this street that Luca renames "Crispy Frank"...

...and arrive at the top of the Spanish Steps. Lovers of John Keats will know that he met his untimely demise in the third terra cotta palazzo on the left. (And that you can rent the apartment directly above it here.)

After tossing a good luck coin in the Trevi Fountain, Piero and I put ourselves in the capable hands of our fifth grade tour guide who is a newfound expert on Roman history.

We walk through the Forum and listen to him expound upon the days when this ancient shopping mall was crammed with toga-clad citizens clamoring for bargains. (He might not have used those exact words.)

What is there to say about the Coliseum except that no matter how many times you see it, it still takes your breath away?

Our tour guide is especially enthralled by the maze of underground tunnels and chambers which housed all the gladiators and wild animals before the shows.

What are these, you ask? Why, they would be terra cotta oil lamps, the precursor of holding up your lighter (or your iPhone) at a concert. "Freebird" meets "Free Maximus."

Then it's over to the Piazza Navona to get lost in the kaleidoscopic profusion of Christmas stalls. A biscotti-sized woman sees my camera and inexplicably freezes. I find her feet adorably enormous.

We duck into a cafe for lunch and I order a drink my friend Stephanie has been raving about since her last trip to Italy: Amaro with prosecco. It's fabuloso.

The next day we cross the Tiber on our way to Vatican City. Admittedly, it's not the Seine, but I do think it possesses a certain faded majesty.

Anyway, beauty's where you find it.  I refocus my lens and the river gains the shimmering emotion of an Impressionist painting.

Our eleven year-old tour guide has just informed us that we have officially crossed into another country.

We step in with a flock of excited nuns heading in the same direction. When we get to the Vatican, we pay a guide to take us to the front of the line, figuring we can head off the crowds this way.

But guess what? We are wrong. The crowd already inside is overwhelming. That's my husband on the right looking for an escape route. But there is no escape route. There is only one direction through the Vatican and 20,000 people are trying to shoulder their way ahead of us. I'm not going to soft-coat it: it feels like trying to exit the Titanic. I've been here before and have never seen it like this. (Note to self: In future, avoid religious sites on high holy days.)

By the time we reach the Sistine Chapel, we are in need of salvation. Fortunately, there is an exit door. 

Back on the street, we encounter a Holy Hunk (d0 you think the nuns were tempted?)...

 

...and a miracle of sorts.

Next Monday: You. Me. London. Snap.