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.

God Bless The Motorinos

I first started to think seriously about moving to Italy in March of 09 and as the notion percolated in my brain, the thought occurred that a motorcycle might be the ideal mode of transportation for the venture. Now this may not seem like that novel of a concept but you have to realize that at the time I think I had sat on a moving motorcycle twice in my life. Once, on the back of Bruce Farkas’ cruiser as we shuttled from one Cleveland bar to another and again on the back of a co-workers bike when he gave me a ride to pick up my car at the local tire center. (I probably shouldn’t even count the second time as it was one of those mammoth touring mothers with seats so big and roomy, you could host a talk show on one.) Still, a motorcycle seemed like a sensible notion. I figured they were relatively inexpensive (I actually had no idea how much a motorcycle cost), would alleviate any dependence on public transport, and perfect for the solo nature of the trip.
There was, of course, another aspect to the plan, the romantic notion of careening through the Italian countryside, leaning into turns on the winding Tuscan roads, rumbling up to some country cathedral just in time to hear the monks chant vespers and then motoring away. Pretty much your basic “Then Came Bronsoni.” Not altogether steeped in reality but not totally out of the realm of possibilities either.
I actually took a reasoned approach to this pipedream. I enrolled in a motorcycle safety course at a local community college (I was the only novice rider in the class…and it showed), got my license, and bought a reasonable “starter” bike, a 1987 Yamaha Virago 535. I took it out with some regularity and got reasonably proficient on it, although I never did work up the nerve to take in the interstate. It’s not a very big bike and I had visions of being bounced like a tumbleweed by the first semi that blew by me. I didn’t intend to ship the bike over here (here and back would cost more than the bike itself) but figured I’d pick up a used one with a little more heft if the price was right.
I landed in Rome on Wednesday and an old high school friend picked me up at the airport and took me to my apartment. I took a nap for a few hours and ventured out to walk the streets of my new hometown. By dinner I had arrived at a conclusion-“Not on your tintype.”

There aren’t all that many motorcycles over here but the streets are full of scooters. They call them Motorinos. You can pull up to a light and be sitting there, idling away, minding your own business, and as you wait for the light to change, you slowly but surely become surrounded by these things. It’s not unlike that scene in Hitchcock’s The Birds where the crows slowly fill up the Jungle Jim outside the school.
Car traffic may be insane over here but motorino traffic is an entirely different kind of crazy. In the states, motorcycles and such have to pretty much follow the same rules as cars, not so over here. At a light they weave their way around the standing cars and fill up the space between them. Motorinos act like cars when it suits them and pedestrians when that’s to their benefit. Yesterday I was showing some friends around the town and was headed over to Largo Argentina, where Caesar met up with his assassins. We turned a corner and just about joined him when a woman came barreling through on her little white Vespa. There was no acknowledgement that the sidewalk might not be the best place for her to be riding. Her logic was clear; it was a one way street and it would be absurd to expect her to go all the way around the block. (In her defense, she was impeccably dressed.)
Pedestrians seem to be on the lowest rung of the ladder over here, transport wise. (Bicyclists, subjected to scorn by motorists and walkers alike while having their fillings rattled loose by the cobblestones aren’t even on the ladder. There aren’t many of them.) While pedestrians do have the right of way at crosswalks, the actual crossing is an act of faith. I find it helpful to make eye-contact with the oncoming driver (It’s very disconcerting to be smack in the middle of the street when you realize that the oncoming driver is scanning the area for street signs or monuments but totally unaware of what or who is directly in front.)
Even with a connection with the driver and a slow but deliberate move into the crosswalk, there’s still a reasonable chance that some motorino rider is going to figure that the crosswalk rule doesn’t pertain to him or her and will swing ride to get around whatever the holdup is. Walkers quickly get used to feeling the wind of a passing scooter in their face or on their backside as some rider couldn’t be bothered to come to a stop. It doesn’t increase any sense of safety to realize that the guy barreling through the crosswalk is smoking a cigarette, which has to be tough on the eyebrows, and talking on the cell phone wedged into his helmet. (I assume this is an accessory but it could just be duct tape and chewing gum, either way the Bluetooth earpiece hasn’t made it over here.)

This jumping out of one’s lane to keep from stopping is a regular feature of motorino driving and, as a result, there’s a fair amount of fender benders that involve the scooters. But they’re just scooters and even a fender bender can have some pretty nasty consequences when you’re basically unprotected other than your helmet. It often seems that, at any given time, if you listen hard enough, you can hear a siren wailing in the distance. Now, it’s a little confusing because all the sirens sound identical but I suspect the majority are ambulances going to scoop up another fallen motorino rider, and every now and then, when the idea of 2 wheeled conveyances starts to sound good, I invariably round a corner and come across a motorino lying on its side with nobody else around. That can’t be a good sign.
So I’ll stick with my feet. That’s adventure enough. There’s a certain sense of satisfaction in bringing a metro bus to a complete halt although I’m careful about playing chicken with the cabbies. I’m pretty sure they would run me right over.
But the truth of the matter is it’s more than that. I love walking around this city and while I, in no way, shape, or form, see myself becoming an ex-pat and staying here past next summer, there are times, and a fair number of them at that, when I realize it will be hard to leave this place. It happened a couple of nights ago. I had done two tours and was bone tired. It’s getting dark early now and the evenings are chilly. I had headed into centro for a cup of hot chocolate (Italian hot chocolate, when it’s made right is a thing of beauty. This, alas, came out of a packet and wasn’t, but that’s another story.) Anyway, between me and home was Piazza Venezia, which is basically one really big and rowdy traffic circle.
It was rush hour and nobody was moving much. The cars were inching through the crosswalks while the motorinos were lurching and swerving through some Frogger game of their own design. I began to pick my way through the mess, armed with the knowledge that I had the right of way and the realization that didn’t necessarily protect me much but in the middle of the street I took a deep breath of the cold night air and had that elusive sense that I was where I was supposed to be. It’s a frantic, noisy, crowded city where most of the natives watch out for their own interests first and love to blow their horns, but it works, often beautifully.

We get requests...

This is the previously mentioned Bernini adorned fountain that sits in a small piazza on the edge of the Jewish ghetto. He added the turtles which he alledgedly saw as an apt metaphor for the Jews.  Tough, determined, and carrying their homes on their backs.

 I also included a shot of the "sunken boat" at the base of the Spanish Steps.  The story goes that after the water receded following one of the Tiber's more extreme floodings, a small boat was "beached" in the Piazza di Spagna. (Years later and a continent away, John Hartford wrote a novel based on a similar event involving a cornfield and a paddlewheeler on, I think, the Ohio River.  No pictures of that.  Don't even ask.) 

B is for Borromini

I always tend to root for the underdog. So while this entry could just as easily gone to Bernini, the other and better known Baroque architect, or just been devoted to Baroque in general, thereby avoiding the whole rivalry thing entirely, I’m going to go ahead and give it to Borominni.

Why? Because he seems to be stuck in Bernini’s shadow or, more accurately, lost in the glare of the other’s genius. Bernini is all over Rome with a profile only exceeded by Michelangelo. Around the Vatican he’s credited with the baldichino over the altar at St Peter’s Basilica (more on that later), the angels standing sentry across the Ponte St. Angelo, and the mammoth colonnade of St Peter’s Square. As a sculptor, his masterpieces include Apollo & Daphne , Pluto & Persephone (both at the Borghese Gallery, where they don’t allow cameras) and St. Teresa in Ecstacy, a stunning work with a swooning Teresa and a very smug angel, looking like he knows exactly what changes he has put her through. His fountains alone include the 4 River’s Fountain in Piazza Navonna, the Sunken Boat at the base of the Spanish Steps and everybody’s favorite, that little fountain with the turtles on the edge of the old Jewish Ghetto.

After my second trip to Rome (there’s really no point in talking about my first trip. It was back in the 70’s and mostly I remember that we did see the Vatican and the Forum but mostly drank a lot of red wine and stayed at a pensione run by Mama Germana a tiny and aged Italian nonna whose knowledge of the English language began and ended with “Hey, sonuvabitcha.”) where was I, oh yeah, after my second trip to Rome I was well aware of Bernini. I don’t think I heard Boromini’s name until my third or, more likely, my fourth. He was a stonecutter’s son, born in the north of Italy and originally worked as a decorative sculptor, adding rosettes and cherub faces to larger works. He eventually made his way to Rome where his uncle got him a job working for the latter’s father-in-law, the architect Carlos Maderno, who was finishing up St. Peter’s Basilica.

Maderno was up in years and in poor health. His fingers were painfully swollen from gout and he suffered terribly from kidney stones. Borromini quickly became Maderno’s right hand man and in the process made the transition from sculptor to architect. When Maderno passed, Borromini was certain that he would be appointed chief architect of St Peter’s. Instead, Pope Urban VIII appointed a young and talented sculptor whose career the newly elected Pope had taken an interest in shepharding toward architecture, Bernini.

While both were serious, uncompromising artisans, the two were a study in contrasts. Bernini was poised, commercially and professionally astute (to a fault), and socially adept. It was said that the pope was so taken by his conversational gifts, that Bernini had permission to visit Urban whenever he pleased. The two would talk late into the night, usually until the Pope fell asleep, leaving Bernini to lock up and let himself out. Boromini on the other hand was morose and prickly, focused entirely on work and a loner. He was known to dress entirely in black with a dash of red piping in his shoes.

While Boromini was disheartened by the slight, he stayed on, in part due to Bernini’s entreaties to do so. In spite of his success as a sculptor, the latter was fairly new to the art and craft of architecture. The first joint work was the previously mentioned baldichino over the main altar in the basilica. While the initial design was Bernini’s, his plan for the top was deemed unworkable because it was simply too heavy. The work as it is seen today bears a lighter more graceful canopy that is generally accepted by art historians as being the work of Boromini but still, as at the time of its completion, the piece is described as Bernini’s baldichino. Bernini never acknowledged the contributions of the other, not the first or last time in his career that such a charge was leveled. Boromini was said to have commented that he didn’t begrudge Bernini taking the fee in its entirety but he could not forgive him taking all the honor. Either way, Boromini left the basilica.

Enough with the history, what’s the appeal? Well, Borromini’s buildings are beautiful. Graceful and flowing and all the things that granite and concrete aren’t. San Carlo of Quatro Fontana is a prime example. This tiny church (it’s been dubbed San Carlito by the locals) was one of his first commissions and one that he tinkered with throughout his life. Somebody somewhere referred to architecture as “frozen music” and this building demonstrates how apt that metaphor is. Even covered with soot, the façade is a marvel of curves and scallops. The small cloister inside appears simple enough. The fact that the square is really an octagon is almost lost in its quietness. The church itself has no side aisles, nave, or transept; just a simple ellipse. The domed ceiling is coffered to suggest a honeycomb, a subtle nod to the bees that dominate the family crest of Pope Urban VIII. The dominant color is white with occasional accents. The Bernini church down the street is similar in shape but its extensive use of gold paint makes it look almost cheesy by comparison.

Besides the artistry, there is something satisfying about the fact that you have to go looking to find these churches, sometimes realizing that you’ve been walking past them for weeks without realizing they were there. I mentioned in my last entry that this was the case with San Carlito. Its narrow marble sidewalk coupled with a busy intersection kept my attention everywhere but up until one time I happened to be walking on the other side of the street, looked over and…there it was. Similarly, the steeple to St Ivo’s rises above the Pantheon neighborhood, it’s spiral design mimicking a bumblebee’s flight, but you won’t notice it if you don’t look up.
That’s one of the marvels of Rome. There is so much within a relatively small city. Any block or alley seems to hold something of interest, whether it’s an old and weathered wall fountain, a marble foot about the size of a Cooper Mini, or a mammoth Gothic cathedral where, when nobodies looking, you can lay your hands on a Michelangelo (I am not suggesting that anyone do that. I’m just saying…). The city, like the artist, has an amazing ability to surprise but you’ve got to keep your eyes open and look other ways besides straight ahead.

(Not all of Borromini’s works were small and out of the way. He was commissioned to do extensive work at San Giovanni Laterano, one of the Vatican basilicas. Likewise, the church of Sant’Agnese in Angone is a prominent feature of the Piazza Navonn

a where it sits across from Bernini’s Four Rivers Fountain. Some tour guides point out that the figure in the fountain recoiling from Borromini’s church in either terror of disgust is another indication of the rivalry between the two but the church was actually started three years after the fountain was finished. (OK, in all honesty I’ve never heard a tour guide tell the apocryphal story as true. We just bring up the false story so that we can dispute it with the truth. Makes us look smart.)

Lastly, there is something ironic and tragic in the fact that Borromini was able to find in the typically unyielding materials of his craft what he was unable to find in his own life and relationships. While his buildings are almost immediately recognizable by their graceful curves and gentle prods to look closer, his personality was anything but gentle and graceful. Resentful, stubborn, and brittle, by the end of his life he had distanced almost anyone who had come close to being a friend. He had also managed to get himself fired from almost every job he was working on. In August 1 1667, he propped a sword against his bed and threw himself upon it. He lingered for a day and died. He’s buried at San Giovanni, in the tomb of his mentor Carlos Maderno. There’s no grave marker, just a small plaque...and a blog entry here.

Back In Rome

I was surprised to notice a little internal ambivalence as the plane was beginning its final descent. There are plusses and minuses to the whole “stranger in a strange land” bit and the scales never entirely settle. At least I think that was what I was feeling/thinking. Couldn’t be too sure, I was mostly exhausted. There no point in going on about the increasingly cramped conditions on airplanes, we’ll just say I got about 10 minutes of sleep and let it go at that. (Oh, and that Iron Man sequel? Not so good. The Fantastic Mr. Fox, on the other hand, is a winner.) I also wasn’t looking forward to wrestling my oversize luggage on to a train and a subway and then rolling it across the cobblestones on the way home. (Clearly I had overpacked but the night before leaving someone told me that Rome’s winters can actually get pretty cold, prompting me to jam in a jacket and some sweaters that I had previously decided to leave behind. Additional ballast was in the form of items that I can’t find in Italy: wash clothes, ziplock bags, the right shampoo (wait, did I just write that.))
Mostly though, this was more than just the physical discomfort. I’d had a great trip back to the states, took a grand tour of the upper Midwest, seen friends I hadn’t seen in months, years, and close to decades in a couple of cases. I’d even met family members I hardly knew I had (My younger sister recently moved to Iowa, a well-spring of McGreeveys). There’s a comfort in sitting down with old friends and feeling like you’re picking up a conversation from years ago as if it were from right after that second cup of coffee. I’ve made some good friends in Italy, some that I’m very fond of, but none of those relationships have that element of time. How could they? So I think I was mostly missing, well, my homies.
Ambivalence aside, I got on the treadmill through passport control, baggage claim, and customs (non-existent). I took a cab back to my apartment (screw it) where I noticed an unfamiliar twinge in my hip I was lugging my bag up the steps. (I live two flights up. The elevator is one flight up and its first stop is three flights up. What kind of deal is that?) I heaved everything into the apt and crashed for a while. That felt great.
When I got up it was late afternoon and I headed out for a walk. As I went through what passes for the lobby, the super greeted me warmly. Even that owl-faced guy who is perpetually walking his aged and cranky dog called “Salve” as if had missed me or at least noticed I had been away. (His dog could have cared less but even that’s an improvement.) I headed down towards the Domus Aurea park. This was the sight of Nero’s opulent Golden House built on property confiscated from the city after the great fire of 64. (He actually took about 40,000 acres. The park sits on a very small part of it. The Colosseum was built by his more-or-less successor on the sight of the man-made lake that was installed in the property’s lowlands, effectively giving the property back to the Romans.)
When I got there last Friday, what do you think I saw? Romans! Hundreds of them! Doing all that Roman stuff. Cooing over their babies and talking with their hands. Kicking soccer balls and walking their little dogs (I’m pretty sure that Rome leads the league in dogs under three pounds.) It was a little shocking. Over the summer the Roman population steadily declines as people head for shores and mountains, culminating in the mass exodus that is ferragusta.
Anyway, I settled onto a bench, taking in the Roman afternoon. The weather was cooler than it had been when I left but was still warm. The sky was the typical Roman blue with large billowing clouds. A splendid afternoon and a thought occurred-Giolitti’s.
Giolotti’s is one of Rome’s oldest and most venerated Gelato parlors. I’m not going to say that they have Rome’s best gelato (that would bear more research and I’m working on it) but they definitely have the best pistachio gelato in the world. It is, to put it mildly, miraculous, tasting exactly like a fistful of freshly roasted pistachios, only cold and smooth. (I was taking a guy on a tour once and he commented that it tasted so much like the real thing, it had to be artificial.) I usually avoid the place during the afternoon because the crush of patrons tends to run out the door but in the evening it’s not so bad and, well, it was getting close to evening.
I decided to take the high road, over the Quirinal hill and down by the Trevi fountain. I made my way to Merulana and around Santa Maria Maggiore. There was a faint rumor of fall in the air and the clouds were thickening, turning a little grey as well. I took a right at the 4 fountains, stopping to admire the façade of San Carlino. I had walked by the church a couple dozen times before I first noticed Borromini’s graceful mix of the concave and convex. Squeezed into a tight corner of a narrow street, the church steps take up the better part of the sidewalk, leaving only a narrow marble strip worn smooth and slippery over time. Most concentrate on their footing when walking directly in front of it. You have to cross the street to get any kind of view. I was doing just that when the first few light drops of rain splattered on my face. I continued on, thinking of my umbrella, nestled safely in my backpack, hanging on a chair in my apartment.
By the time I got to the Quirinale Palace, a steady rain was falling. I huddled under a window sill for a few minutes, hoping the storm would pass but when I looked down the street, I could see that it was getting serious and headed my way. Across the street and beneath some scaffolding was a passage protected by plywood. I splashed over, moments before the real cloudburst struck. Immediately the tunnel was full. I heard French, German, Italian, English, and something Slavic sounding. All God’s children stuck in the rain. A British couple lumbered in drenched, the man found a spot against the wall, leaned his head against the plywood and within minutes was softly snoring. Four Italian kids in soccer togs sprinted in, stayed for a few minutes and then, apparently realizing that they couldn’t possibly get any wetter, tore off into the storm. The rest of us waited it out, rolling our eyes at each other’s common lot, and uttering the occasional “Mamma Mia.”
The rain eventually stopped and I headed down the hill. I ignored the turn-off to the Trevi and headed straight for gelato (Trevi’s over-rated anyway, particularly during daylight). Surprisingly there was a decent crowd at Giolitti’s. I figured the rain would have thinned things out a bit. I got my ticket and joined the fringes of the amoeba like mass of patrons. Immediately, one of the counter men took my ticket and my order. (This might or might not have been just luck. There’s usually a tip tray, roundly ignored, on the counter at a gelateria. I’ve learned that if you toss in a dime, making sure that they see or hear it clink, you’ll be remembered.)
A minute later I was standing on the San Pietro stones outside, working my way through a pistachio/riso cone. Riso is, as you might imagine, rice flavored gelato, kind of like frozen rice pudding. It’s subtle, doesn’t really taste that much different than vanilla and the frozen rice kernels make my fillings ache but it goes well with pistachio. The pistachio was…well, I don’t presume to critique miracles. Let’s just say it was worth the trip. I believe I can do this for a little while longer.