There are the girls, Jill and Sarah, and then there are the ladies, SASB and Deidre.

The girls are older than the ladies, although the ladies never discuss their ages. My husband Brian and I go to flea markets and basketball games with the girls. We go to boozy brunches and drag shows with the ladies. We wear our everyday denim with polo shirts to hang out with the girls. We wear dress jeans with collared shirts to visit the ladies.

But all six of us parent teenagers, which is why we all needed vacations. The girls made reservations for theirs in Thailand. Brian and I didn’t think we could get away, but God bless the ladies. When Doctor Doogie told us we had a window of time before radiation and a possible nephrectomy, the ladies jumped in to plan us four a Roman Holiday (apologies to Audrey Hepburn).

As Julius Caesar noted, “All Gaul is divided into three parts.” So too is the tale of this journey: from the Eternal City to Florence to Paris.

All roads lead to Rome. We say that because the ancient empire built 250,000 miles of highway across the breadth of Europe. The phrase is not technically correct; you can’t drive there from California, but a plane will suffice.

We arrived on Ash Wednesday and took a taxi to our Airbnb, just around the corner from the Trevi Fountain. A tourist crowd fills the piazza from dawn to way past dusk, so it’s a lot like staying at Fishermen’s Wharf.

The fountain was established in ancient times as tre vie, three roads intersecting at the Acqua Virginae aqueduct. In 1762, a grand marble cascade was built. Legend has it that if you throw a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder into the pool, you will return to Rome. There must be a lot of people who want a second date with the City of Seven Hills, because 3,000 euros are collected there each day, the money going to feed the city’s poor.

When in Rome, do as the Americans do, which for us meant walking into a bar the next morning. SASB and I learned, however, that a bar is a place to get coffee, not liquor, unless you order a cafe corretto, which means you want liquor in your coffee. Instead, we grabbed cappuccinos and walked up the Spanish Steps.

After visiting the Colosseum, all four of us stopped for un primo, a first course of pasta.

My Italian is lousy. Too many years of French and Spanish have defeated two months of Duolingo. But I did know enough to order a broo-sketta rather than broo-shetta. The waiter’s English was better than my Spanish/French and he delivered it promptly. He asked if I wanted my water still or sparkling.

I replied, “Holy.”

Deidre approved a bottle of Garganega and the waiter filled Brian’s and SASB’s glasses. Too early in the day for me. I reached for my own glass, but the waiter got there first, pouring a sip. “When in Rome,” he shrugged, “you need this to make chin-chin.” We clinked our glasses and toasted Italy.

We chin-chinned after learning to make pasta. We chin-chinned with Chianti, espresso and water — still or sparkling.

And we texted each celebration to the girls in Thailand, who always sent back an emoji, no matter what the time difference.

And then we traveled to another country: Vatican City. For this I wore a button-down shirt with silk necktie and a suit jacket. My mother, Nurse Vivian, would not have settled for less -- “just in case the Pope shows up.” We walked past Caravaggio’s “Entombment of Christ” and Raphael’s “Transfiguration.” But the aha! moment came in the Sistine Chapel.

Michelangelo Buonarroti was a sculptor, not a painter, but there was no saying no to Pope Julian II when he told him to decorate the ceiling. Michelangelo hated the project so much that he destroyed the original frescoes he had drawn of the apostles and fled to Carrera.

But some spark drew him back. Over four years he painted nine scenes from Genesis, the most famous of which is in the ceiling’s center, “The Creation of Man.”

The room was silent as we entered, and no photography was allowed. But as we raised our eyes, one of the ladies dropped her phone and as she picked it up, it clicked. We had captured an image of Adam stretching out his hand to God.

This was our epiphany, the thing we learned on our pilgrimage: Life begins again and again, even when death is sniffing around the edges. There is always a part of us reaching for the divine. And each other.

We have four sisters. We have the girls in Thailand, who texted a Buddha for every Madonna we sent. We have the ladies in Rome, who always discover another reason to chin-chin.

Next week: Florence and Paris.

Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s book, “Secrets of the Blue Bungalow” (Fearless Books, $25), is available at fearlessbooks.com and area bookstores.

Reach Kevin Fisher-Paulson: kevinfisherpaulson@gmail.com