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.

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.