Where'd everybody go?

SquiSanto, the café/bar on the corner, where I get my morning cappuccino and cornetto is closed. So is the bakery around the corner, the one that only opened last July. Even La Cuccuna, the ever reliable pizzeria and tavola caldo (hot buffet) across the street, is dark. What gives? It’s Ferragosta. All (well, most) of the Romans have blown town, leaving the city in the hands of the tourists and stranieri.

Ferragosta coincides with the Feast of the Assumption but it goes back to pagan times. It’s a harvest festival and its origins lay in a festival to Diana (nevermind that she is the goddess of the hunt and not agriculture). It has been celebrated consistently throughout Roman history. The “agosta” in its name refers not to the month but to Caesar Augustus, during whose reign the celebrations were particularly robust.

Historically, Romans would celebrate the harvest by taking a full month off. These days, it’s more like two weeks but it makes for a pretty quiet city as shops started closing down a week or so ago. The exodus hit full swing over the weekend and most residential streets looked like dorm parking lots after the last day of classes, cars every which way with trunks and hatches standing open while people jammed their last few bags before heading to the shore or the mountains. I took a long walk around town the other night and had to keep reminding myself it was Saturday. Ghost town might have been too strong of an expression, but not by much.
Usually August in Rome is reason enough to head for the hills but after a brutal July (I know it was hot back home but please understand, air conditioning is still a rarity over here.), things have been pretty pleasant over here. Warm, but not too bad. Today’s a beaut, nice breeze, low humidity. Still, when in Rome one does as the Romans do, even if that means getting out of Rome so I’m hitting the road myself. I’m heading back to the states for a few weeks and while I’m really enjoying myself over here, there are a few things I’m really looking forward to: (And don’t think of this as complaining. Think of this as a gratitude list in advance.):

Lemonade. I don’t get this, Italy is crazy about lemons. It’s a natural, yet it is next to impossible to find. I did stumble upon a stand a few weeks back and was halfway through a long pull on the straw when I became painfully aware that they serve it entirely unsweetened and expect the customer to sweeten it to their own liking. My cheeks still haven’t relaxed.

Dryers, as in clothes dryers. Most Roman apts. have a washer but few have dryers. My initial apt had a spiffy little all in one unit. It took about 4 hours to do a load and it kinda baked the clothes dry (to a crackly crunch). Oh, and it blew every circuit breaker in the place if you plugged anything else in. The current washer is an improvement (about an hour and a half to wash a small load), but to dry items, we rely on a drying rack that sits in perpetual use by the dining room table. I’ve got a fan blowing across the current batch. I’m hoping they’ll be dry enough for packing by bedtime.

Rita’s Italian Ice. Makes no sense, right? I think Italian ice is a US take on granita, the Italian slushie. A lemon granita on a hot day is pretty close to heaven (lemonade would be closer) but there are usually only three available flavors. I miss the breadth of selections at Rita’s. I miss the raspberry. I miss the wild black cherry. I miss the cotton candy. (So great to be an adult and to have an adult palate.)

Movies. I haven’t been to the movies since I got here. Most US films are dubbed over here and I can’t follow the language yet. I haven’t really missed them and I have no idea what’s showing these days. (I did see that Sylvester Stallone and Julia Roberts squared off this weekend.) Still, I’ve always been a fan and hope to find myself in theater before too long. (I understand they’re air conditioned.)

Green space. Rome is tough on the feet. There’s not a lot of grass and the pavement can be extremely uneven, especially those little San Pietro stones. I spent my first few weeks rolling my ankle on a daily basis. Looking forward to heading out to the Gunpowder or, better yet, Michigan.

Michigan. There is no Michigan in Rome.

Family and Friends. OK this should have been first. Looking forward to spending time with a bunch of people in a bunch of states and there’s probably no need to elaborate but there are a lot of folks that I’ve missed seeing or working with or just knowing that I could pick up a phone and call. Whenever. So long as it was reasonable. (By the way, did anybody ever find my Blackberry?)

Gotta pack. I’ll pick this up again mid-September. Ciao.

...(Not Constantinople)

Now this place is different, but at first glance, not as different as I expected. After wading through the humidity and boarding the shuttle for the long (50 km) ride in from the airport, the first thing I saw was a “power strip” shopping center, complete with Sbarros, BK, and Popeyes. Granted it was next to a goat field but still, a little more western than anticipated.
The city is huge, a mammoth sprawl lapping onto two continents. The current population is somewhere around 16 million and the trip from the airport was an extended slog through urban sprawl dotted generously with mosques and minarets, backlit by an fierce sun that appeared to be none too happy about calling it a day. I arrived at my hotel and unloaded my bags. (I was staying at the Orient Youth Hostel, a recommendation from one of my flatmates. I had pointed out that I haven’t qualified as a “youth” in quite some time but was reassured that while it was “historically” a youth hostel, it was now just another hotel. Uh, guess again.)
I was staying in Sultanahmet, the historic district and home to the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophie, and Topkapi Palace. I didn’t get that far as I was just looking for dinner. I was quickly waved into a restaurant (actually I waved into a bunch of restaurants, in fact, let’s just get this over with…If there’s a negative to Istanbul, it’s that you are bombarded by people calling you their “good friend” trying to get you to buy something. Usually it’s a carpet but it can be any kind of knick-knack or meal. The opening approach is to ask where the person is from (Baltimore? My good friend, I have a cousin there? Beautiful city. Come see my shop.) , but there are variations. Numerous times a local would start to speak Turkish to me and then when I responded with my patented dumb look, the response would be “Oh, I thought you were Turkish. You look Turkish”, thereby appealing to the universal desire to not look like a tourist.
Once you get used to it (and it took me a full day), you recognize a certain good-naturedness to most of the hawking (that’s most, not all. Occasionally it got a little creepy). I had to laugh at the “You look Turkish” dodge (I’m the least Turkish looking person I know) and got to the point where I would reply “Now, we both know that’s not true.” The usual response would be “Nobody is perfect” followed by a request to come see some carpets. (and I’ve got to wonder if anybody ever says “Well, I was just going out for a kebab, but sure, I’ll come buy a carpet”)
OK, one more example of the sidewalk sell and then I’ll move on. I had been warned about this one before arrival but was amazed at how many times I saw it. Istanbul has a lot of shoe shine guys and many practice the following dodge. You’re walking down the street on a hot and humid afternoon when a shoe shine guy rounds the corner and starts walking down the street in front of you. Out of nowhere, his brush falls from his box. You point this out to him and he expresses his extreme gratitude and insists that he give you a free shine to demonstrate his thanks and out of “friendship”, adding that he would feel bad if denied. You accept and he sets to work, telling you about his multitudinous children and his hard life and how helpful a generous tip would be. A friend of mine got stuck in the midst of this scenario a few years ago and said it got downright ugly. I was amazed when on my first walk about town; the first shiner I ran into dropped his brush not once but twice. A few hours later I was across a bridge, one got in front of me and his brush clattered to the pavement within ten seconds. (I suspect neither of them thought I looked Turkish.)

You get the idea, right. It’s annoying, but not annoying enough to seriously detract from the city’s highpoints. I felt positively harassed the first day (I suspect that traveling alone I was a particularly attractive target.), but by the second day was pretty sure that unless I did something really stupid, I was perfectly safe. Once I got to that point, I could enjoy the city for what it is. I’ve been back for about three days and I’m already musing on my next trip over.

So what stands out? I don’t know; everything. That first evening, I was sitting outside the restaurant, carpets spread on the cobblestones. I was working my way through a kebap platter. Most of the other diners had finished their meals and were settling in with a cup of apple tea (good stuff) and /or an enormous hookah pipe, blissful expressions behind the plumes of smoke. A loudspeaker coughed from a few blocks away and the night was filled with the evening call to prayer. The thought occurred that I was a long way from home and that was OK.
I had that thought a number of times. Istanbul is an easy city to get lost in. I don’t mean “forget your troubles and yourself and just be” lost; I mean “Where the fuck am I” lost. Most of the street maps I saw only list about half of the streets and most of the actual streets aren’t marked and aren’t straight either for that matter so, well, you get the idea. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I got good and lost (twice) trying to find a particular mosque and ended up sitting in the shade of the courtyard of a small neighborhood mosque, hanging with the guys and eating salted cucumbers from the cucumber and apple vendor, and thinking, again, that I was a long way from home. I couldn’t speak the language but that didn’t matter, nobody was talking anyway but the fact that I had bought a cucumber seemed to indicate that I was ok. (For the record, I did finally find that mosque but it was closed for renovations.)

The apple and cucumber vendor is just one (or is that two?) example of Istanbul’s interesting and expansive array of street food. Far and away the most popular items are grilled ears of corn and large rings of sesame encrusted bread but there are plenty of others: Rice pilaf (sold out of one of a bright red popcorn cart, nuts and dried chickpeas, watermelon, ice cream (a rubbery version that you really have to bite your way through, spooned out by a yard long rod with a tablespoon sized peel on the end), fresh squeezed orange juice (about .75 for a 6 oz glass), meatballs, and doner kebaps (gyros). Down by the Bospherus it gets a little more exotic and distinctly fishy: mussel shells stuffed with chopped mussels and rice, shredded fish meat and grilled fish sandwiches.
Speaking of fish dandwiches, the coolest things was heading down to the base of the Galata bridge where three bobbing boats, belching smoke and lit like carousels sell fish sandwiches topped with onions, greens, and a lemon sauce. At a price of about three bucks a piece, it’s no wonder the place is packed. I bought one, the guy behind me bought 8. Afterwards, I walked across the bridge to what I thought was Asia. (Turns out I was misinformed, it was just another part of Europe.) Along the bridge there were lots of anglers, snatching small fish out of the Bospherus which they would immediately cut up and pickle into some form of seviche. The Turkish drivers thought nothing of stopping in the right hand lane to chat for a bit and maybe buy a cup of fish. (Like to see somebody try that on the GW or Woodrow Wilson.)
It’s not just the food that’s exotic. Waking up to the 5 AM call to prayer let’s you know you’re in a different place. I suppose that, viewed objectively, it isn’t that much different than the regular tolling of the church bells in Rome but subjectively it’s so much different. In the old part of the city, mosques are everywhere so you get this overlapping effect as one meuzzin wraps up while another starts. One meuzzin doesn’t seem to take any notice of what or when the next one is singing but every now and then happenstance brings about what sounds like a duet. My first day back in Rome I found myself waiting to hear it, but, well, I was back in Rome. I still miss it.
Then there are the Dervishes. Istanbul isn’t really Dervish central but there are a few performances (if that’s the right word). Interestingly, the Mevlevi order has officially been outlawed for years but the Turkish government recognizes the tourist appeal so the ban is hardly enforced. Quite the opposite, they’re actually pretty well promoted. I attended a Sema performance at a converted bath house. I was expecting a watered-down version (no pun intended) and that may be what I got, but it was still beautiful. One by one the five semazens(the proper name for a dervish, I think) entered dressed in black cloaks and tall felt hats, symbolizing their graves and tombstones respectively. After a series of prayers and bows, they removed their cloaks to reveal white gowns (funeral shrouds) and took up positions with one in the center (sun) and the other four (moons) surrounding him.
With each hand hugging the opposite shoulder, they slowly began to spin on their right foot, their left propelling them. Their arms slowly came down and then opened like flowers. With one palm up and one palm down, heads tilted to the left, they spun like that for 7 or 8 minutes, beatific looks on their faces. Then another series of bows, then more spinning. The entire performance lasted about an hour and there appeared to be general confusion on the audiences part as to how to respond. Do you clap for religious ritual? We reached a compromise of sorts and we greeted the semazens’ departure with silence but applauded the musicians.

Elsewhere the Turkish women and visitors from other parts of the Muslim world represent the entire spectrum of head scarves, from the complete black shroud to fluorescent colored form fitting attire. Turkey has long prided itself on having a secular government but the increasing use of the scarves has sparked controversy, leading to some politicos having to explain why their wives choose to wrap themselves and in some cases being asked not to attend public ceremonies. There appears to be some concern that the current head of the government is too solicitous of Islam and I heard some fears that the idea of a secular government is being challenged. Many are looking forward to the December elections with curiosity and concern.
I suspect I could go on and on. The total lack of street musicians (except one kid noodling on a melodic from dawn to dusk), the apparent lack of child labor laws, the almost Venetian quality of an evening boat trip up the Bospherus with ghost-like mosques nuzzling the shore, the Spice Bazaar (every stall selling some version of “Turkish Viagra” and everyone looked different, but they did have apple tea. Have I mentioned apple tea? Apple tea is great.) and, of course, the Grand Bazaar. (I bought a shirt. Not because I wanted a souvenir but because it was my last day and Istanbul is really hot and humid and I feared that if I didn’t get a fresh shirt, they weren’t going to let me on the plane. Anyway, the guy quoted a price of 75 Turkish Lira (TL=$.70) and I got him down to 40 but I still think I got ripped.

I also haven’t mentioned the Blue Mosque (stunning), the Hagia Sophie (even more so), Topkapi Palace (really crowded, I mean really crowded), or the Underground Cistern, and the simple fact of the matter is that I barely got out of the historic district. When I first came to Rome, somebody told me that I should just approach the city with the intention of coming back because you just can’t see it all. The same is true of this one. Besides I have all those good friends.

A is for Accordion

There are over 500 churches in Rome and probably twice as many accordion players. I have no complaint with that; it’s a lovely instrument. Lyrical, versatile, and complete. I’d go so far as to suggest that the accordion is a more effective treatment for depression than any of the SSRIs, SSNRIs, or atypical anti-psychotics that are spending all those advertising dollars. But only when used as directed.
I’ll give you an example. I came to Rome in 2006 with my then-wife, my brother and his wife. We had a great time tromping all over the city but each night, our feet sore from negotiating the San Pietro cobblestone, we were invariably confronted with the task of humping our way up the incline of Via Cavour in order to make our way back to our hotel. Every day we swore we’d find a way around it and every night we were foiled.
Our last night in the city, brother John and I were sure we had found a direct path home, but as we strode on, everything started to look uneasily familiar. We were all getting pretty cranky and accusations about our ability to read a map started to seep into the air. Suddenly, as if on cue, a compact but dapper man in a linen suit sauntered through the alley wheedling some Neapolitan tune out of the huge accordion strapped to his chest (A baritone accordion?).
Immediately, the air was sweetened and our mood brightened. Smiles flickered; hands were held. My brother’s wife slipped into his arms and they deftly waltzed across the cobblestones. OK, maybe I’m getting carried away. We were still pretty cranky but just for a moment, things got… Well, maybe I’m still overstating things but it was a cool suit and a really big accordion and I distinctly remember it to this day.
I grew up with the accordion. Not like I grew up with the aforementioned brother, in the same house and everything, but it was always around. This was northeast Ohio where the accordion and polka went hand in hand. We learned to polka in school; in religion class to be precise (true story). Sunday morning TV included Polka Varieties (with Wally and the Polka Chips) and if you’re from the area you know what happened whenever someone from Parma wrote in to Ghoulardi (If you’re not, never mind). My sullen contemporaries and I tended to regard the music and the instrument with scorn but our toes still tapped. Years later at my nephew's wedding reception, I knew I was home when the dance floor, which had been a veritable no man’s land, was immediately swamped when the Deejay threw on a polka. Hell, it wasn’t even the Chicken Dance.
Somewhere along the lines the instrument picked up street cred and some versatility. For me I think it started with Flaco Jimenez’ appearances with Ry Cooder and Doug Sahm but then again, the Band had a great way of sneaking it in amongst all those layers of keyboards. When it started to show up on Springsteen albums it was safely out of Eastern European ghetto and when R. Crumb’s Cheap Suit Serenaders recorded Persian Rug, reclamation was complete.
Here in Italy, I suspect its appeal has remained constant. The average street player has as good a chance of being a grizzled septuagenarian as some sleekly tailored young dude, and is likely to be a man as a woman. One of my favorites is a woman who works a corner near the Pantheon, expertly wringing Sabre Dance out of her box. I had hoped to get a picture of her but she won’t stop moving long enough for me to focus. The kid in the collage recently started to show on the strip in front of the Forum but works his way through a nice traditional canon.
Repertoires vary. Walk through a restaurant district most evenings and you’re bound to hear Strangers in the Night, My Way, and Besame Mucho. The Love Theme from the Godfather is another standard. There are those who try to stretch the instrument with limited success. A few months ago, some guy outside my window was pumping his way through Europe’s The Final Countdown. I moved shortly thereafter. I put a coin in the cup of the woman in the derby and she immediately broke into I will Survive, which, come to think of it, may have been her reaction to the fact that it was a really small coin. At the time I just figured she recognized me as an American and, as we all know, Americans love Gloria Gaynor. I walked away.
A more disturbing trend is the nascent effort to update the instrument itself. The young man smiling for the camera also works the Pantheon but accompanies himself with a little karaoke machine (I think his mom is his mixmaster). The young lady in black tries to bring a touch of elegance to the proceedings and filters hers through a synthesizer so you end up with Keith Emerson playing La Vie en Rose. The worst is the kinetic little guy with a boom box working the blue Metro line. The subway is hot and crowded enough without having this guy bouncing around.
Actually I think the instrument is best from about a block away. Preferably a block parallel to the one I’m on. That’s not a knock. I’m really fond of the instrument. (I’ve even thought about getting a small one and annoying the neighbors.) I just think it sounds best when it’s wafting, just working the edges of perception. There’s something very, well, Italian, about walking home at night and catching the faint scent of an accordion in the air. Even if it never fully materializes, there’s something very sweet about the promise.