My ill-exercised neck, unused to contorting itself in so many directions all at once and certainly not inclined to gazing upwards for an unbroken 60 seconds, already feels displaced from the rest of my body. Michelangelo, I salute you. Not only did the famed sculptor-artist lie on his back for four years, 'brushstroking' a ceiling that would outlive horrific wars and changing winds, but imprinted his genius in a way that no history book can ever recapture. Sure, he fell off his precarious perch a couple of times and cracked a few bones, but that was a minor occupational hazard, shrugged off by the commissioning Pope (Julius II) of the time. My reverie is shaken with terse commands of 'No flash!' and 'Silence please!' as the watchdogs of the Sistine Chapel frown at the forbidden cameras that surreptitiously creep forth from some deviants in the mob, defiantly freezing quick frames of the Biblical frescoes.

Six centuries after Michelangelo's Creation of Man, the crowds continue to swell and we are hustled out with the flow into another crowd-pulling wonder - St Peter's Church, the world's largest Christian church and a magnificent relic of Renaissance architecture. In a quiet nook, sits the tragic Pieta protected from viewers by a measured distance and bulletproof glass. The celebrated sculpture, carved from a single block of marble and the only one ever signed by Michelangelo, was almost destroyed by a demented person in 1972.

Vatican City, the smallest independent state in the world since 1929, housing the above aesthetic marvels, the Pope and several Malayali Catholics who serve God in His kingdom, is as large as an average (European) city park with its distinctive marble columns and high stone walls - the very ones scaled by Tom Cruise in this year's action-packed, breathlessly paced Mission Impossible III.

From the realms of compassion and prayer, we find ourselves at the threshold of a monumental ruin, steeped in the blood of persecuted Christians mauled by lions and gladiators impaling each other till the last breath. Erected between 72 and 80 AD, the imposing Colosseum, witness to the most unholy acts of barbarism, stands strangely forlorn in its skeletal travertine stone, stripped of its marbled splendour. Back in those days, the amphitheatre could be emptied of 60,000 spectators through 80 numbered arches in less than 20 minutes; today, in view of the snaking queues and security checks, it will probably take 20 hours to just gain admittance inside! Then, posing for mementoes against the neighbouring Arch of Constantine, our small group notices a newly-wed couple alongside, getting into photo album mode. While the bride arranges her lacy trail into chic folds, and the groom, straightens his bow, flashbulbs pop, catching their smiles and embraces for the camera. "Very common in Europe," supplies Francois Ganes, to our silent query. "Get married, then take a picture in front of an ancient monument!" Francois, operations manager for luxury brand, Fendi, remembers his promise to the gelato fans in our group, and whisks us away to one of the best gelaterias (Ciampini 2) in the city, where the chocoholics amongst us revel in each frozen bite of the generous scoops.

We are, it appears, beginning a meal from its end, for Cristiana Torre and Gabriella Moncada, Fendi directors and our hosts for the afternoon, have planned a 'Girls' Day Out' that includes lunch at Caccia, a men's only club! But aristocracy - even if linked by marriage - opens doors and we follow the statuesque fashionistas into an old-world setting of ornate sofas, rich tapestries and a barricaded secret staircase from where Pauline Bonaparte's string of lovers entered and exited! Regaled with such juicy lore of past and present-day scandals, over Chianti and cannelloni, uncaring of the frowning disapproval of the gloved waiters, we look around for the club's lifeline - the gentlemen of leisure. Gabriella glances at her watch. "Oh, they are somewhere on the grounds, probably bickering over a game of bocce!"

The club is housed in the restored wing of a historic palazzo with the other half transformed into residential apartments, inhabited by the Italian beau monde and in our wanderings, we discover that at the end of every major crossing, is either a piazza (big square) or a palazzo (small palace). Enriched with archival detail, and not just in their chronology, they are often overrun with the New Age distractions of sparkling stores and hip bistros. In a race (not recommended), to the bottom of the tourist-friendly Spanish Steps (138 in all), we lose ourselves in the extravagant elegance of Via Condotti, the high road to high fashion. Watching riveted shoppers dash in and out of Dior, Pucci, YSL, Max Mara, Fendi and suchlike, we sip our espressos at a sidewalk café and mull over the curious fact that this was the street on which Keats and Shelley lived!

Spreadeagled across both banks of the River Tiber, Rome, a city built on hills, can be quite disconcerting to the first-time visitor - the Roman Forum, a puzzling jigsaw of broken walls and stunted columns, where you have to nudge your imagination to recreate open marketplaces and platforms of governance…the Circus Maximus, well preserved oval arena of bygone chariot races, now circled by the cacophony of daily traffic…the leafy, wooded Villa Borghese, flanked by the snobby flounce of the five-star… the white Victor Emmanuel monument at the end of a shopping haven….The city's overwhelming contrasts come into play whether you are chasing a Caravaggio at Galleria Doria Pamphilj or examining the stilettos on sale at Via del Corso.

At Trevi, with elbows jutting out and handbag clutched in pickpocket deterrent mode, I almost leapfrog over the sea of humanity, draped over every inch of the parapet. Determined to follow the legendary practice of throwing a coin with the right hand over the left shoulder to ensure a return to the 'Eternal City', I stop for a moment to admire the mythical wild horses and tritons, before diving into an exploration of the clutch of shops surrounding the 18th century fountain.

Later, succumbing to the tenacious temptation of the Enoteca (wine bar) Al Parlamento Achilli, armed with a bottle each of the aromatic Muscato and the deadly Limencello, several parcels of handrolled pasta and boxes of biscotti, I absorb the multifarious centurial threads that run through the city's architecture and artistic heritage. And I know that the adage rings true - that Rome was certainly not built in a day!