The next time I was taken by the urge for a walk, I made sure to brush my hair, put on a fresh dress, and head west, in the opposite direction of the Roman hills. Crossing the Tiber on the Pont Sant’Angelo, I was amazed to see the familiar shape of a canoe passing below. I crossed to the other side of the bridge and looked down, where, sure enough, a canoe emerged with two American Indians in native dress manning the paddles. I squinted into the low spring sun. Could I really be seeing this? I looked around for some explanation. 

            A poster on a kiosk at the end of the bridge provided the answer. It advertised 

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