The woman wears black Wayfarer glasses. Her head is covered by a scarf and her skirt just passes her calves. She holds a bag in one arm and uses the other to push through a rotating door. Her skin is gray, her hair black, her skirt white. The photograph has been pasted into a silver frame next to an article listing all the celebrities who have stayed at this extravagant Italian hotel. The frame is harshly modern against the ornate red wallpaper and Italian marble pillars of the lobby. The lobby leads into a hallway where half a dozen glass boxes stand on stone pedestals. These display stilettos, silk gloves, leather bags, and Swiss watches – all available for purchase in the lobby.

My sneakers squeak across the polished marble floor. We walk into the dining room. The ceilings are 20 feet high, hung with chandeliers and embossed with flowers and cupids. Brass-colored tassels decorate red velvet curtains, and the windows show a courtyard scattered with glass-topped tables and tuxedo-wearing waiters.

An old man in the courtyard waves to us. He is dressed like a Silicon Valley executive, in khakis and white basketball shoes. Next to him sits a woman. She wears sandals and a fanny pack and sips tea from a porcelain cup. I smile at the couple and run across the Persian carpets through the open door. They are my grandparents.

The back wall of the courtyard is a steep hill garden. Stairs run up the hill to a traverse. Doors and statues are planted across the walkway. My chair screeches across the tile as I sit. A menu, printed in an elegant font on thick paper with sharp edges, lies on top of a starched napkin at my place. The menu is in English. The prices are not listed.

A man with a thick Italian accent and long apron takes my order. I set my sunglasses on the table. They clink against the glass.

“How was the walk?” asks my grandfather.

“Hot and crowded,” says my father.

“It’s supposed to be 100 degrees today,” offers my mother. My brother moans and slumps in his chair.

They continue speaking. The waiter brings my juice. It comes in a four-inch-tall bottle with a blue label.

“What kind of juice is that?” My grandmother has finished her tea.

“Apricot.”

“Could I try some?”

I pass her the bottle and watch as she sips it tentatively.

“That’s definitely not for me – too sweet.” She laughs. “I’m going to order orange juice; hopefully it’ll taste more American.” I laugh a little. My grandmother sits straight in her chair, her hands delicately folded across the glass top. Behind her a woman wearing five-inch heels is walking through the door, two children and a nanny trailing behind her. It is loud here; muffled conversations and children’s whines echo across the yard. Shoes and silverware clack on glass and stone.

But I cannot hear the streets of Rome. The Persian rugs and marble floors and Swiss watches block out the shouting and the traffic.

Yes, the street is very far away.