Upstairs, Vanvitelli shows me impressive suites, including one that Leonard Bernstein used to stay in, that retains his polished white grand piano and has a fantastic terrace. The Junior Suite is my favorite. “Perfect for honeymooners,” he says, pointing out how the bed is situated for an amazing view: Piazza Venezia to the left and Saint Peter’s to the right.
I wonder if centuries ago this heavenly panorama left the nuns, bishops, and ladies of the evening as awestruck as I feel right now.
Fraterna Domus
The smell of holy water hits me the moment I’m buzzed into Fraterna Domus, which sits just a few blocks from Piazza Navona. A slim woman in her fifties, with a pixie hair cut, navy blue sweater, and skirt introduces herself as Sister Milena.
“Where’s your habit?” I want to ask, but hold back and get the scoop later from Sister Cecilia, the youngest of the four nuns who live here.
“We’re an order founded in 1967, after Vatican II, here to help the poor,” she tells me. “We are not different from the people we help, so we don’t dress differently from them.”
Sister Cecilia becomes my favorite of this down-to-earth quartet. They’re all the types you’d expect any minute to pull out a guitar and start strumming “Dominique,” though instead they keep busy running out to do their charity work, mopping the convent floors, and cleaning the guest rooms.
My basement room is about the size of my De La Ville bathroom and as stark as I’d imagine a nun’s cell to be, with an IKEA-style closet and twin bed. Over my desk, there’s a friendly looking Jesus, with long flowing hair, moustache, and goatee. The closet-sized bathroom has a gizmo I’ve never seen before: a spigot sticking out from the toilet, so it can double as a bidet.
The simple atmosphere is calming after running around the curvy Baroque splendors of the neighborhood. I don’t even mind the 11 p.m. curfew. I bring a bottle of wine back to my room and stay up late writing and sipping from a paper cup, feeling a twinge of naughtiness: Will one of the sisters knock on my door and bust me for drinking? Outside my tiny alley-level window, signorine in high heels clickety-clack by—their breathy exchanges with boyfriends adding a spicy touch.
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