The Rainy Season

The cold and damp thing that the Romans call winter has descended on the city. I guess I knew it was coming. It had been getting dark earlier and earlier and though we were enjoying 70 degree weather a couple weeks ago, the nights carried a serious chill. The daily rain started in earnest last week and although there are deceptive periods of impossibly blue skies, they’re always accompanied by a flotilla of gunboat grey clouds organizing themselves on the horizon. I left my apartment building yesterday afternoon and had immediate cause to regret that I hadn’t brought my sunglasses but in ten minutes I was huddled under one of the arches of the Coliseum, waiting for a cloudburst to play itself out.
If we were going strictly on temperature, Rome doesn’t really get that cold (well, so far), but the cold it gets is a damp cold that settles in the bones and joints and feels colder. (Conversely, the Roman sun is fierce and as a result, the summer heat is hotter than the thermometer would indicate.) Anyway, the lower temperatures call for some adjustments. I think I’ve mentioned before that while most Roman homes have a washing machine, dryers are both a rarity and a luxury. Most opt for a drying rack either on the balcony, or, if you don’t have a balcony (that would be me), in the living room. In the summer most clothes dry in about a day so once you get used to the towels feeling like 20 grit sandpaper, you’re good to go, but once you get to the end of October, you’re looking at two, three, maybe four days to dry, if you’re lucky. The choice comes down to walking around with the faint and occasional scent of mildew or heading to the coin operated Laundromat. It’s the equivalent of 12 bucks a load to run through the machines but at least people don’t look at you funny on the Metro.
On the other hand, there are a number of upsides to the change in temperature, the most obvious being the fact that it beats the summer swelter of July, but there are more. Italian hot chocolate for instance. Throw away any conception you have of hot chocolate. This stuff is dark and rich and just a touch thinner than pudding. I think that Starbucks tried to market something like this six or seven years ago as a “sipping chocolate” but it didn’t take. (Interesting tidbit, the Italian government has blocked Starbucks form coming into the country, saying that coffee is too important to Italian culture to allow interlopers. I’m actually a big fan of Starbucks but I think that’s so cool.)
Anyway, a cup of the stuff on a cold evening is a comforting thing and probably wouldn’t be half as good if it were only half as raw outside. I was about five minutes from home the other night and decided to walk an hour out of my way to get a cup at my current favorite spot. There’s something wonderful about bellying up to the bar with a bunch of adults slowly sipping scalding hot chocolate slathered with whip cream, totally oblivious to the streaks of white and brown dotting their lips. (One of the things I love about Romans is the unapologetic way they indulge their sweet tooth because, in spite of my attempts to appear vaguely sophisticated at the dinner table, I’ve got the palate of an eight year old. If I saw fettuccini alla Lik-M-Aid on a menu, I would probably order it.)
Actually the cold weather just calls out for comfort food in general and Italians know comfort food. The cheese, the starch, the fat, they know how to do it. I think I survived the summer on watermelon and aqua frizzante but with the drop in temperature, the restaurant menus look so much more inviting. All those cream sauces that would put me under in the summer seems sensible. The gnocchi at Vincenzo’s in Trestevere calls me by my name. Since the whole town is a stairmaster, there’s not a lot of guilt when you order dessert.

I grew up not too far from the Great Lakes and have reasonable experience with winter. We would get a healthy snowfall around the first of the year and not see grass again until sometime in the middle of March. I’ve lost my share of mittens, been convinced that frostbite had settled into my ears, and suffered the indignity of snowpants. I hadn’t, however, ever gained an appreciation of the scarf until coming to Italy. In the first place, they look great with numerous styles of application, but, more importantly, they work. I had no idea and for years thought they were mainly a fashion statement. Then, last Spring I was in Florence and it was snowing and I hadn’t packed for snow but scarves were available on the sidewalk for cheap. It was a revelation. The Italians though, have elevated the scarf to an art form featuring everything from the heavy wool numbers that get a quick loop and their on, to long but light materials that get wound around the neck 4 or 5 times giving the impression of a softer version of Nubian neck rings.
I think it is thanks to a scarf that the tenor who works the piazza outside the Pantheon can keep that gig going year round. Now I don’t pretend to know much about opera and don’t know that I can tell the difference between a good opera singer and a simply passable one but this guy sounds good to me. Of course, it helps that he’s practicing his craft in Rome. If he were standing on a corner in Sandusky, Ohio he would probably just get funny looks, but there’s something (dare I say it) magical about coming down a cobblestone alley and running into this guy belting out Nessum Dorma. (I suspect that this number has become the Pachelbel Canon of opera (Aretha covered it, for God’s sake.) and people in the know probably roll their eyes when they hear the opening strains, but I’m still not sick of it and find it ravishing (For the record, I don’t think I’ve ever called anything or anyone ravishing before, except maybe Rita Hayworth but it’s foggy. We were both pretty drunk at the time. Also for the record, Aretha nailed it.))
Back to the tenor. I’ve enjoyed listening to him year round but he seems to sound better in the winter. It may just be that the crowds are down and he doesn’t have as much ambient noise to compete with but then again the whole scene is more inviting in winter. The air is bracing and smells of roasting chestnuts. The crowd seems comfortable to draw a little tighter. I May be making all this up but I know I linger longer in the winter. I think he even manages to sell a few more CDs in the winter, Christmas and all.
Interestingly, there isn’t much of a trace of Christmas on the street yet. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and I suspect that back home decorations have been up for a month but here, they are just starting to go up. There’s a bar down the street that put a green tinsel arch on the sidewalk back in October but it’s still sporting plastic Jack-O-Lanterns. Ornaments and the like are showing up on shelves and in a few windows but things are pretty low key. I’ve decided to stay in Rome for the holiday just to see how they do it here, although I’m not sure I’m up for the marathon that is Christmas mass at St. Peter’s.
Speaking of Thanksgiving, hope everyone has/had a good one. Amongst the things I’m grateful for are the friendships I’ve found here and the ones that glow back home. Special thanks to those who actually respond to my e-mails. It means a lot. In an unfortunate groaner, I’m heading to Turkey on Thanksgiving where there are plans for all night bus trips and hot air balloons. I’ll keep you posted.

Fearful Symmetries and a Quest Fulfilled

When last we spoke, I was walking home in the rain, having inadvertently left my umbrella on one of the many chunks of ancient marble that dot the city. Ok now, jump a head a week; same guy, same park, same kind of weather or at least a similar front moving through. I had spent the day wandering the city and enjoying the unexpectedly clear weather and, as clouds started to be gather, I had decided to sit for a bit before heading home. I parked myself on another slab of marble not 20 yards away from where I had lost my umbrella the week before. I pulled out my Blackberry, checked messages and had decided to respond to a few, when it began to rain. So, I pulled my umbrella (a loaner from a flat mate, actually. Haven’t found a replacement for my favorite model) out of my bag and aligning it awkwardly with hunched shoulder and elbow joint, proceed to go kalimba on my Blackberry.
A few minutes later, I realized that someone was calling “Signore” and upon looking up, realized that that someone was talking to me. I’d never seen him before but he was probably in his late thirties, with close cropped hair and sideburns. He had on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and the ubiquitous Italian scarf. He also had my shoulder bag, which he seemed to be offering me but when I reached out for it, he drew back the bag, identified himself as “Politzia,” and pointed over his shoulder to where a handcuffed man was being loaded into the back of a cruiser.
If you’ve ever been robbed, or burgled, or vandalized, you’re probably familiar with the slow moving logic that slides through the disorientation and eventually brings you to the conclusion that you have been made victim of a crime. What seemed particularly odd in this case was that fact that I had been sitting there the whole time and, under shelter of my umbrella, hadn’t seen a thing. Didn’t even know it happened.
There’s no point in going into details. We walked over to the station, which was only about 100 yards away where I was led up the steps and into a bare-walled room, and with me in one corner and the “perp” in the other, filled out our respective paperwork. (Mine being slowed up slightly by the language barrier.) Eventually they brought over the finished report (in Italian) and asked me to read it over for accuracy. It looked great to me, very official with nice margins and everything so I signed away and I was out the door with the admonishment to be a little more watchful in the future. I was feeling kinda silly and amused by how close I came to ending the day by walking home clutching my umbrella but having no idea where my bag was, but I was also feeling pretty lucky, and when I feel lucky, there’s only one place to go…up on the Aventine, to hear the monks sing Vespers at San Anselmo.
Now I’ve been trying to hear these monks for about four months. It started when I read a blurb somewhere recommending it as a Roman activity not to be missed. That was in late June and on a warm Saturday afternoon I trudged up the hill to reconnoiter, finding a note affirming that the monks did, in fact, sing nightly from the first of October to the end of June. So the next night, June 28th, I went back up the hill where, along with a dozen or so similarly puzzled folk, found that the church was locked up tighter than a drum, the monks having apparently taken off for the Poconos a little early this year. This was disappointing.
The summer passed but part of my brain was continually keeping track of the days remaining before the monk’s return. Around the third of fourth of October I was standing outside the church, this time wondering what the story was with the Swiss school choir that was knocking out some Viennese chorale music inside and where were the frippin’ monks anyway? In a particularly unsettling development, the previously mentioned sign that announced the schedule of singing was nowhere to be found. Eventually I found someone attached to the church who told me that the monks would, in fact be singing in October but not for another week or so, once school started up. I tried again a week and a half ago but that turned out to be All Saints Day and the program was a little more elaborate than usual; bishops, bright vestments, booming organ. Not bad, but not what I was looking for either.
So tonight was going to be my last shot. I’d already had one lucky break and was thinking that maybe my luck would hold, although that looked doubtful when the skies started to throw it down in buckets on the walk over but it rained itself out pretty quickly and although I was drenched…well, I’ve been drenched before.
From the walkway the church appeared dark and my heart started to sink but as I got closer to the glass I could see that there was some light inside. The door was unlocked and I walked in. There was no one inside but myself and the organist who was playing quietly. A few lights burned from the area around the altar but the rest of the church was in shadows. I sat.
I have no idea how old the church is. The interior appears newer than most of the churches in Rome. It is neither imposing nor intimate, and is, if anything, airy. The walls are painted a warm yellow. Granite columns, waxed glossy, line the walls. The apse behind the altar is decorated with a large but simple mosaic and a crucifix decorated with a Byzantine inspired painting of Christ is suspended from a light chain. It appears to float above the altar.
After 20 minutes or so, the organ player stopped playing and turned off the lamp above the keyboard. A few minutes later a handful of monks started to roam around the altar area. Candles were lit, hymnals placed, and the lights throughout the church were brought up (which was a shame). A half a dozen people had filtered in and taken seats and a man in secular dress distributed leaflets containing the evening’s Vespers.
A little after seven, the church’s bells started to ring. Too small to truly toll, they sounded more melodic than most of the larger bells in town. The monks filed in, there were about 60 of them, clad in long cassocks with the hoods pulled back. The organ sounded a chord, everyone stood, and they began. Simple plainsong sung in a lengthy call and response. The sound filled the church, but softly. Individual voices were muted in their own echoes but some words drifted through, words I hadn’t heard for a while like Domine, Secula Secularum and the like. There was a reading in Latin and a bit of incense. A bit more singing and that was it. The monks filed out, some coming into the congregation to greet visitors, but most disappearing through a side door. Outside it had stopped raining. Leaves were plastered flat on the driveway and a chill had seized the air. The moon was out and the sky was swirled with clouds. It was a beautiful night.
A couple days later a friend asked where the attraction to Vespers came from and I had to think about it. Some of it connects with younger days. The Latin, the plainsong, the incense all strike some old chord. I used to be an altar boy (between you and me, I’m the only altar boy I know who managed to catch his hair on fire while serving mass, but we won’t go into that.) and, as I recall, I was actually pretty devout in those days so I suppose there’s some comfort and nostalgia there.
More than that though, there’s something about the ritual use of music that resonates with me on a very basic level. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the Muslim call to prayer coming out of a lousy loudspeaker or the long toll of the nine o’clock bell at the basilica down the street. There seems to be something noble in the desire to make music, to bring some order out of the noisy chaos, and it seems particularly moving when small humans wrap themselves with song in order to confront the bigger questions. I don’t know whether the intention of vespers is to sing out the toils of the day or sing in the mysteries of night, but I prefer to think it’s the latter. The implication is that there are larger issues at play that dwarf concerns over a lost shoulder bag or getting caught in the rain.

A few years ago I was at a BSO performance. I don’t remember what it was, probably one of those Mahler Symphony of a billion things but I remember being, as always, a little stunned by the opening note, all those instruments acting as one, and I remember looking at the wide array of brass, reed, and string instruments and thinking that this probably started with someone blowing on a hollow stem or noticing that his or her tummy made a funny noise when thumped just so. From somewhere around there the music impulse arose and it’s sacred stuff.

Now, one would hope that I would have some means of wrapping this up ‘cause I’ve strayed fairly far afield here, but I don’t. Words only take me so far and then, as far as my command of them goes, they only approximate the thought or the feeling. Amongst the wonders of Rome are a number of sounds and images that communicate something other and probably bigger than words and I suppose it’s no surprise that most are in churches. These days it’s the evening bell at Maria Maggiore, and the blue ceiling of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva. It's that ghostly procession of cherubs peering down from from the dimly lit cupola of Sant’ Andrea al Quiranale (I suspect one of them will grow up to be Bruno Ganz.).  It's always the dome of the Pantheon, and now finally it's the Benedictine Vespers at San Anselmo.

When I Lay My 'Brella Down

Artist's Recreation

I lost my umbrella today. Again. It’s the second one I’ve misplaced in as many months (thankfully there was virtually no rain over the summer otherwise I’d probably be at 6 and counting). It was exactly the same model as the last one, not terribly expensive but not one of those three Euro numbers they sell on the street. It had some heft and it was reliable. I had done an all day tour with a couple from Virginia and after I loaded them into their cab back to the hotel, I settled onto one of the slabs of ruin that dot the grounds around Trajan’s column to rest my weary feet. I remember tossing down the umbrella and slinging my day pack off my shoulder. I probably sat for ten minutes or so before heading home and I suspect that was where I left it. I didn’t discover the loss until it started to rain and I began fishing around in my day pack looking for it and could only come up with juice boxes and fruit roll-ups or whatever it is I carry in that thing.
Now the worst time to realize that you’ve lost your umbrella is when it starts to rain, but I suspect that it’s also the most common. It’s also the kind of thing that tends to infuriate me because, a) it’s one of those dumb little things that can’t be undone and b) I tend to be a little on the reactive side. Now the down side to that is that I can have a perfectly good day undone by an inopportune broken shoelace but the upside is that a lousy day can be erased by a really good sunset (or chocolate chip cookie for that matter). It’s not a trait I’m particularly proud of but, well, there it is.
This time it didn’t bother me. I had just had one of those days that could have gone and seemed to go either way a number of times and consistently found itself in the exact opposite quadrant to the one where I thought it was headed. It was a good working example of the Chinese farmer story. (You know the story. Chinese farmer’s horse runs off in the night. Everybody in town says “What lousy luck.” Farmer says “too soon to tell.” Next day horse comes back being trailed by two wild ponies. Everybody in town says “What great luck.” Farmer says “Too soon to tell.” Next day the farmer’s son tries to saddle break one of the horses and breaks his collarbone. Everybody in town says… You get the idea.)
The day actually started the night before or actually a couple of days before that when I looked at my work schedule and realized I could point to the exact moment when the tourist season would end. Most of October was busy, as busy as July, but then somewhere in its last week, it all came to a crashing halt and judging by my schedule, I was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed. Now I like time off as well as the next the next guy but I can’t afford to stay over here if there’s no money coming in and I was, if not panicked, at least concerned. I went to sleep making a mental list of all the things I wanted to do before being forced to make a premature return to the states.
I awoke, however, to my Blackberry chiming that a text had come in. It had been sent last night but apparently took a few hours to work itself through the bunker-like concrete walls of my apartment building. (This is a not uncommon feature of Roman buildings and, for optimal reception, cell phones spend as much time sitting on window sills as they do in pockets and purses.) Anyway, it was a message from our scheduler asking me to take a Colisseum tour. A rush of relief washed over me. Maybe I’m not unemployed yet and can stop mentally packing. I immediately shot back a reply in the affirmative only to get a response saying that they got somebody else when I didn’t respond last night. Dag. But before I could get to upset, my Blackberry started to ring. It was the office calling, the booking office this time and they needed me for a couple who want a private tour. Bingo and a reprieve. I hopped in the shower, threw on some clothes and dashed out the door.
It was raining, one of those cold seeping rains that can only be truly appreciated from beneath a down comforter and accompanied by the knowledge that you don’t need to go anywhere. It really doesn’t fit so well with a three hour outdoor tour, spectacular ruins or not, but, well, whatareyougonnado?
So I popped open my umbrella and headed down the hill to the piazza where our tours begin. I checked in with the coordinator and…more good news (a hint of sarcasm creeps in). The Colosseum maintenance workers were on strike until 1:00. Italy has a lot of strikes but they are usually announced ahead of time and rarely last more than a day. No one seems to know what this one was about. Undoubtedly, shorter work hours and bigger paychecks play into it but as to specifics, who knows?
Anyway, the folks who are waiting for their group tour get reassigned to a later tour and filter off. The group guides go home. The coordinator and I chat for a bit but I know he wants to leave as well because it’s almost 10 and he can do that. I, on the other hand, will wait for my couple. Private tours get a one hour grace period, but private tours also have a tendency not to show up when the weather’s bad so I’m not optimistic. I also know from experience that standing alone under your umbrella in a pouring rain and an empty piazza tends to make one question one’s life choices. At least it does me. Did I mention that I wasn’t feeling optimistic?
I look at the coordinator and he’s clearly had enough. It’s cold and rainy, the colosseum is closed, everybody’s reassigned. His work is done and he starts to pack up. At that instance, my couple shows up. Wet and a little flustered looking. The coordinator apprises them of the situation and they look a little concerned for a moment and then she lets out a big laugh. They think this is a riot. Then she turns to me and says something along the lines of “If we pay you enough, can you show us some stuff until the place opens.” and suddenly, things are looking up.
So we walked around for a while. I showed them Michelangelo’s Moses (by the way, if you ever come to Rome, don’t miss this. It’s in a church called Peter in Chains (San Pietro in Vincoli) which is not far from the Colosseum but a little out of the way and, unfortunately, often overlooked.), the Pantheon, some Caravaggios. Somewhere along the way it stopped raining. We grabbed some lunch in the Jewish Ghetto (the couple identified themselves as foodies and I’d been meaning to have a meal there for a while myself). And speaking of that couple, they were a ball. She was, and I believe this is the correct technical term, a pistol, funny, direct, irreverent. He was a little older and calmer, but clearly both amused and in love with his wife. Rain or no, it was a great time and, and here”s the kicker, it was my job. I was getting paid for this, maybe not much but it wasn’t a bad deal.
Lunch was great, artichokes Roman style (fried in a fair amount of olive oil and tastier than you would imagine), large and light semolina gnocchi, and a tuna and tahini dish. The restaurant fit in perfectly with the current version of the day’s mood. The woman, bemoaning a recent dearth of vegetables in her diet, had started out by ordering just a large salad. The waiter (the Egyptian waiter) just laughed and when pressed responded “You come all the way to Rome. You come to the Jewish Ghetto, and you order a salad. You can get that anywhere.” Both agreed that he was right and ordered something a little more regional.
Afterward, we wandered over to the Colosseum and such for the actual tour and, I think, it was a bit of a letdown after the morning. The sky started to leak a bit but it was mild compared to the earlier deluge and we soldiered on. Finally, after their feet were sore and their heads could contain no more arcane information about gladiators and ancient Rome, I settled them in a cab and away they went.
And that brings me back to where I started, which certainly wasn’t how I expected things to end. I sat down for a few minutes to rest my feet and when I got up, I walked away from my umbrella. No big deal. Certainly nothing to get upset about. I can get another one. Days like this don’t come along that often…and hopefully I can remember that.