When in Rome, one must admire Italy's bella forma

On a recent trip to Rome, a city where art and sensuality saturate the air the way humidity soaks our own, I stumbled upon a piece of unexpected wisdom. Crossing a stone bridge that spanned the green waters of the Tiber, I passed two young American men, the kind with hair cranked up in tufts like they just rolled out of bed who sport T-shirts with slogans like, "Save water, drink beer."

The shorter one was pontificating to his friend. "The girls here..." He waved his hands vaguely in the air, searching for the right term. "They're different."

A Japanese couple passed between us, snapping photographs of the flowing river below, and I missed his next sentence. I picked up the conversation again at, "In Vegas, they're just so..." Another pause. "Plastic," he finished.

Well done, my young friend, I thought. I had been noticing the same thing. If not in the women on the street (I saved my ogling for the men), then in the statues at the museums and on the frescoes covering palace walls.

I would nod to myself as I looked upon those fleshy female figures with their heavy thighs and curved stomachs. This is what a woman is supposed to look like, I thought. In fact, the statues and paintings looked like the women I know — all soft arms and rounded bellies, with real bosoms and full backs. In the Renaissance artwork and the older, classical pieces, nowhere did I see a hint of the Hollywood ideal, those rock-hard abs and scrawny arms so unnatural to the female form. Absent, too, were the giant silicone boobs popularized by modern, lesser masters (Hugh Hefner and his flock of sad-souled bunnies comes to mind).

If the women were more natural and less idyllic — or, rather, the ideal of a different time — then the men of Rome — in art and on the streets — were something else entirely. And by something else, I mean perfection personified. I caught glimpses of dark-haired Adonises crossing streets and sipping espresso. They boasted Patrician noses and fine figures and carried themselves with a European grace. The boyish waiter at our neighborhood pizzeria, the blue-eyed electrician who came to fix our hot water heater, even the taxi drivers with their reckless steering and stereotypically Italian lead feet — all of them were gorgeous.

Of course, in Italy, the bar for men has been set high for centuries. Michelangelo is said to have believed the male form superior to the female figure, even using male models for his female subjects (check out the stocky Sybils on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel). His great est work — the sculpted David — is the definition of masculinity.

On a day trip to Florence, the great statue and I came face-to-face (and faceto chiseled abs, face-to-rippling biceps, face-to-firm butt cheeks). Let me say this: The David gave me chills, with his furrowed brow and muscular detail so real I swore he breathed. But the most impressive part was, ahem, much more profane (and profound).

With inspiration like this, it's no wonder Italy has mastered the beautiful form — in paint, in stone, and most importantly in flesh.

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