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.