Letters from Italy
The following Letters from Italy are intended to give a snapshot of life in Rome and in the countryside. Feedback and comments and suggestions welcome!
OK perhaps I wasn’t as fast off the mark as I would normally have been. I was tired, I had driven my Land Rover down from Casciano and I was momentarily relaxing at the red light on via Petroselli without noticing that the lights had changed.
“Sono solo tre colori !” shouted some thug on a motorino behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror. A 25 year old wearing a battered orange helmet covered in Lazio stickers was sitting on a crappy little red motorino grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I wasn’t going to take this lying down. While I was trying to figure out which hand gesture might suit the occasion the thug sped by smiling disarmingly. Moments later, turning his head and waving goodbye, he cut in front of a police car and headed up to Lungotevere.
When I got to the flat I had rented in via Mameli I discovered that the previous occupants, thinking there were 31 days in the month of June, were still in residence. They were young, honeymooning Belgians so I did the honourable thing. I drove over to Prati and found a hotel.
The Hotel Splendid was anything but. An overweight, spotty, unwashed 20 year old with ‘See Me, Feel Me, Kiss Me’ on her T-shirt asked me to sign the register and, as I was only staying one night, to pay the full amount in advance.
The hotel was horrible. But I was only staying one night and by the following morning I would have my own flat. No lift of course so I lugged my suitcase up four flights of the narrow staircase to my room.
The interior decoration was deliberately insulting. A thread-bare armchair stood by the air vent/ window next to a broken luggage rack. A feeble grey telephone hung on the wall. A single light bulb was suspended from the ceiling encased in a frilly, onetime pink lampshade. The communal bathroom, I already knew, was on the floor below, but it was several minutes before it suddenly dawned on me that there was no bed. Even for the Hotel Splendid this was going a bit far.
I picked up the feeble phone and asked the girl in the sexy shirt where the bed had gone. “The very latest, in vogue, matrimonial bed you will find cunningly enclosed between the mahogany style bookshelves. Simply press the lever at the side of the left hand bookshelf to reveal your matrimonial bed with its double webbed Velux mattress as it folds out of the cupboard” She was obviously reading from some sort of brochure. I was about to make a comment but she hung up.
I went over to the tall cupboard between two plywood, not mahogany, bookshelves and searched for the lever. I pressed it and sure enough the fake cupboard doors fell away from the wall and formed the base of a matrimonial bed.
My room being sorted I left the hotel to find some sort of haven where I could at least observe civilised human beings in pleasant surroundings. I took a taxi to Eur, (‘Universal Exposition of Rome’) the Mussolini ‘satellite city’ where my Irish/Italian friend Michael owns Aqua Lounge, an outdoor bar restaurant swimming pool fitness complex. I paid the taxi and walked past the bouncers towards the terrazza.
As I started up the stairs I saw, parked by a tree, a crappy little red motorino with a battered orange helmet covered in Lazio stickers hanging off its handlebars.
Hmm.
There were several hundred people inside, all looking young, fit and capable of driving crappy red motorinos. Whilst keeping a weather eye on the crowd I had a couple of drinks with two girls I knew and went to pay the bill.
As soon as the cashier opened his mouth I recognized that smile. “So” I said “there are only three colours at a traffic light, huh?”
“Ma ?” he said as he dropped his jaw. Recovering, he pointed at me and said “You! The silver Land Rover! Ciao!” He left the till, came around the counter, kissed me on both cheeks and told me the drinks were on him. And bought me another one. Michael, the owner, came over to join us. Between cashier duties I learned that he was a playwright and an actor named Marco Calvani. He was already quite well established in Italy and Spain but he badly needed to make it in England. I gave him my telephone number even though I wasn’t sure there was much I could do to help.
Saying good bye to Michael and Marco I walked down the steps, past the lovely little red motorino and took a taxi back to the dreadful Hotel Splendid. Terrified that the bed would suddenly close on me in the night, locking me in for the duration, I spent the night on the threadbare armchair.
Now, three years on, Marco is the best of friends. He, Michael, Marco’s flatmate and fellow actor Elisa and I are all part of Marco’s company Mixo’ and yesterday I finished translating the second of his plays into English.
My ‘reward’ was a ride on the back of his brand spanking new black motorino. One thing you should understand about Marco is that he does a thousand things at once. His mind and body are in perpetual motion which is all well and good unless you are a passenger on his motorino. We started off, naturally enough, going the wrong way down a one-way street, weaving among the parked cars, yelling admonishments to drivers brave enough to criticize us and finally entered the rush hour traffic by Circo Massimo. We dodged cars and buses until we got to the head of the queue at the main crossroads, ignored the red light, and inserted ourselves into the midst of a flurry of motorcycles and motorinos that swarmed like wasps towards Piazza Vittoria.
All the while Marco provided a running commentary pointing out places of interest “there’s the FAO building; that’s my favourite bar, there’s the department store MAS, this is where Giancarlo lives…”. Each time he would look back at me to see that I was listening, appreciating, paying attention…..ignoring the road in front of him, oblivious to the cars on either side of us.
I of course had long since resigned myself to the fact that in all likelihood this would be my last journey, my final ride and that I would simply end up as another statistic on Rome’s daily quota of road accidents. We took a short cut across a pedestrian bridge over the railway line, through the No Entry signs at Pigneto, stopped off at Campobasso for a drink, found the bar closed so made for Monti. As we passed Santa Maria Maggiore I was momentarily tempted to convert before it was too late but my thoughts were interrupted by the squillo of Marco’s cell phone.
Entering Piazza Venezia on the back of a motorino while the driver is not only talking to you, looking at you as he does so, but simultaneously (everything Marco does is simultaneous) talking on the phone, is not a recipe for stress free living.
But it is infinitely preferable to driving down via Cavour at break-neck speed as he simultaneously texts messages to friends in Germany.
Somehow we survive to enjoy a celebratory marguerita at the bar in Monti before heading out to dinner with actor friends in via Mameli.
By the time dinner is over and it’s time for Marco to drop me off he announces that he’s a little drunk. Of course, the missing ingredient!
Fortunately I was too, so we had a nice, relaxed, trouble free ride home through the back streets of Trastevere, I think.
.
On my way to lunch I stopped off at a little hole in the wall “shop” called Spaccio Carbone. I wanted to buy a cooking implement the name of which I didn’t know in English, let alone Italian. It’s round and like a spatula – perhaps it’s a round spatula? I found a flat spatula hanging amongst the cobwebs and told the ancient owner that I wanted “a round one of these”. “Ah”, he said accompanied by various facial contortions, “faccio vedere”. He situated himself in the far left corner of the room surrounded by an assortment of dead (surely?) batteries, washing up materials manufactured long before such things as sell-by dates existed, baskets of assorted mouse-traps, soaps, alabaster Madonnas and plastic forks. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Not quite sure what was going on I looked around feigning curiosity but kept one eye on the old man. He opened his eyes and started to walk, head swivelling from left to right and up and down as he advanced. “Here?” he’d stop at one basket and search “No”. And then a little further on, the same thing. “No, no, no, no………” I was beginning to despair. I was already late for lunch and concerned my table would be given to some undeserving person who happened by. “L’ho visto, sono sicuro”, he was sure he had seen one (“In 1943, maybe” I thought to myself). He then returned to the starting position and once again took a deep breath and closed his eyes. I was about to call it a day when his eyes suddenly opened wide establishing eye contact with me, albeit involuntarily, for the first time. He walked, unimpaired, directly to a hanging basket, reached around to the side that had not seen light for a good many years, if ever, and ‘Eureka’ out came something like a spatula, only round.
“Ecco, 5 euros” he raised five fingers, helpfully, on his left hand. I could see that the label on the implement said 3 euros but given storage time, inflation since 1943 etc. I offered him 4 and left for the restaurant, his molto grazies ringing in my ears.
I don’t know what it is about me but restaurant owners tend to be ashamed of me. No sooner do I set foot in their restaurant, especially when I am alone, than they hustle me away from the daylight to the back of the room to sit among fifteen or twenty people, invariably with little children , far away from the more elegant parts of the restaurant outside in the sun or shade depending on the weather. Perhaps it’s because I look poor or don’t dress well enough? But seated in the elegant outside are Americans in dirty T-shirts and torn jean and Brits in outfits of clashing colours wearing socks with sandals! (Who was it that said they wished that wearing socks with sandals would give you cancer? ) What could be worse? Me, I guess.
But today I tried, I really tried. All my clothes are clean and freshly ironed; nothing clashes and I am wearing sandals, true, but with bare feet and I cut my toe nails especially lest anyone should be bored enough to take a glance. It’s all very perplexing. Plus I am invariably seated with the staff and today is no exception.
Firstly, there is the nursing mother to contend with. Every time I look in her direction she is fondling a breast while feeding her little girl. She always appears to be looking at me even though I try to time my glances to avoid such an occurrence. They say the birth rate in Italy is zero – you wouldn’t believe it if you frequented the sort of restaurants I frequent. The rooms are always buzzing with offspring barely nine months apart in age. And unlike in England, where they would be ignored if allowed in at all, here these babies reduce the entire adult population, me included, to babyhood. We stare at their antics, ooh and ahh out loud and interpret every sound and gesture as indicative of nascent brilliance.
And now I come to think of it these characters in the back of the restaurant with me are nothing to write home about themselves which makes their apparent disdain for me doubly mystifying. The mother of the children has a resigned air about her and, irritatingly, speaks in a dialect I don’t even recognize let alone understand. The presumed father (I’m still not quite sure of the exact relationships given that everyone acts as thought they are the adoring parents, but I hope I am safe in assuming that the breast feeding woman is the mother) anyway, the presumed father is wearing his trousers well below the recommended level for decency; and pretty soon the cook, looking like a matron in a particularly sinister psychiatric hospital, comes out from her den (the kitchen) and comes over all gooey and cuddly with the baby, in fact with all the babies.
It transpires that all twenty of these people are related, intimately so. The cook is apparently the grandmother (at least she is referred to as Nonna) the chief waiter is Nonno and the other waiter is Zio. I think he is also the brother of the children’s father. But that’s just a guess.
I sit respectfully quiet and adoring of the babies in turn.
When it’s time to pay the bill the father with his pants too low sends his eldest son (aged 3) over to me with the bill and a disposable camera. The kid’s aim isn’t too hot so he takes pictures of my sandals (perhaps it’s my freshly trimmed toe-nails?) and the floor. He hands me the bill. I give him a 20 euro bill for his Nonno, and a 20 centismo tip for himself. He says “Grazie Babbo (Father)” Now I don’t blame him for being confused but………goodness, maybe? No, no, no, three years ago?……. No, no, no.
Determinedly avoiding eye contact with the nursing mother I beat a hasty retreat.
I was served my coffee by the young person of indeterminate sex and sat at a small table outside the bar with the morning paper. Unlike in Naples where you are severely reprimanded if you attempt to read your newspaper and drink your coffee at the same time (coffee drinking being akin to a religion in Naples), in Rome they don’t give a damn. They don’t even make fun of tourists who order cappuccino (considered a breakfast drink) long past 10:00 a.m.
So, unmolested, I read, drank and viewed the early morning bustle in Piazza San Francesco a Ripa (St Francis by the Docks, which it used to be, the docks long since having disappeared).
I had a 7:30 a.m. appointment to visit the church of the same name and I was waiting for Monsignor Olivieri whose acquaintance I had made at a bookstore the previous day.
I was staring absent mindedly across the piazza when I noticed a short, plump figure, brown robes blowing in a welcome early morning breeze, making a bee-line for my table. Monsignor Olivieri was a monk on a mission and he had no time to waste. “Buongiorno, buongiorno” he grabbed my hand and virtually pulled me from my seat. Speaking and walking rapidly he started lecturing me “Now first, we are going to visit one of the small chapels which has an abundance of treasures, Simon Vouet, a follower of Caravaggio, he was one of the foremost painters of the 17th century as I’m sure you know.” ( ? doubtful. Ed.)
I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to, so out of breath was I. He swung open the church door and marched me direct to the chapel in question. My eyes were so transfixed by an enormous, ghastly, garish coloured sculpture of the Madonna that I temporarily lost concentration. The Monsignor never paused.
“As you can see Vouet’s Nativity of the Virgin is a very special capolavoro imbued with feeling and religiosity. And over the altar you will have recognised the Flemish artist Marten de Vos painting of the Immaculate Conception.” I was beginning to get worried that the Monsignor had mistaken me for some world-renowned art historian. Thankfully he was still in full flow, and unlikely to stop.
“Behind the chapel is the tomb of Giorgio De Chirico”
“Ah, the twentieth century metaphysical painter and sculptor” I said, having quickly read the notice whilst the Monsignor was talking about immaculate conception.
“Of course” he replied.
Passing over the second chapel, due to lack of time, he pulled back a rope at the third and brought me face to face with Saint Charles of Sezze (d. 1670). His body had been embalmed and coated with wax and now lay inside a glass box, all of which I found quite disturbing. I was interested to note that St Charles was holding a copy of one of his own publications in his hand. An original form of advertising ….
But Monsignor Olivieri was either running out of time or running out of patience so we only had time for one more chapel. “And here at last is Bernini’s famous statue of Blessed Ludovica Albertoni one of the highest expressions of the Baroque……….”
I don’t know what it is with Bernini and maybe I’m wrong but this lady, rather like his even more famous statue of Santa Teresa in the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria, is clearly experiencing some sort of ecstasy that would not normally be classified as divine, at least by the Church. Not wanting to linger too long on this thought lest the Monsignor should read my mind I concentrated hard on his explanation of how the rear wall of the chapel had been pushed back to allow two windows to throw more light onto Blessed Ludovica, which was of course undeniably ingenious of Bernini.
Time had run out. Monsignor Olivieri was required elsewhere. I thanked him effusively and stood for a minute in front of the church and watched as, to my surprise, he strode over to a miniscule Fiat Toppolino parked near the church, manouvered his considerable bulk into it and bumped across the piazza and out of sight.
In the afternoon I stopped for a restorative coffee at a rather seedy bar on the way to Via Porta Portese. The surly father, face twitching from some unfortunate malady, took my 10 Euro note and gave me change for 5 hoping I wouldn’t notice. I did and he reluctantly gave me a 5 Euro note. His unattractive wife and doltish son served behind the bar. I quickly downed the espresso and, as I left, I noticed a collection box with a few coins inside. Above it was a printed notice saying “For a family in need”. I had a pretty good idea whose family that was.
Near the corner of Via Porta Portese and Via Jacopo de’ Settesoli I passed by a dilapidated looking structure which I knew to have been the former Casa della GIL (HQ of the fascist youth group). It was designed by a guy called Luigi Moretti who seemed to have an instinct for sinister buildings. He also designed the Foro Italico (originally Foro Mussolini) to show off para-military prowess and the Watergate complex in Washington.
On account of my early start I opted for an early dinner at my favourite restaurant, Da Enzo on Via dei Vascellari. Marcello is the taciturn owner who’s excellent sense of humor is ignited by young female clients. For the rest of us no smile, he just points over his shoulder at a table and looks at you with the “e allora?” look so beloved of Romans (and Italians in General). They suddenly develop an extra few inches of thoracic muscle enabling the face to protrude frog-like from the neck; eye brows raised; eye balls popping out of their sockets (hands, if not otherwise engaged) in open supplication – the entire body involved in the unspoken but loudly clear exclamation, meanings ranging from “ so, what do you want?” to “what do you want me to do about it?” to “I can’t believe I am wasting my time talking with an ignoramus like you.” I am regularly subjected to all three and thus have come to interpret the multiple actions pretty accurately.
My friends Marco and Aldo joined me for supper. Lightly fried zucchini flowers and artichokes; polpette, spinaci, insalata verde and delicious tiny fragole with zucchero e limone. At 10:30 we walked to the local movie house to see Sex and the City. When the lights went up two and a half hours later we discovered we were practically the only males there and certainly the only ones over 18. Boh!
I drove up from Rome to Siena for a wedding only to find that it had been cancelled as the bride-to-be was suffering from post natal depression.
So I went to see my friend Fabio instead. He and his architect boyfriend Bruno run a “low cost” B&B (so low cost they omit the second B) in the Chianti hills above Panzano. Fabio’s friend Antonella prepared a delicious lunch – Bruschette with tomatoes and lardo, mm, Pasta piccantissima (a bit too), Apples, Pecorino and, unusually, a Tuscan white, from Trecciano – which we consumed outside, surrounded by flowering bushes of sweet smelling rosemary and irises, and views of vineyard covered hills beneath us. After lunch we drove down to Panzano to meet Dario Cecchini, the butcher (Macellaio) and poet who spouts Dante (particularly Inferno) as he chops. Unsurprisingly he is a popular regular on Italian TV. Fabio used to work there so it was kisses all around, tours behind locked doors (it is also a restaurant – or I should say, Casa da Macellaio) and a preview of MacDario’s (the Mac being short for Macellaio) an open air “low cost” (the Italians love this term) section of the restaurant, opening soon. Dario gave me a free jar of salt, a wet kiss, showed me an article from the LA Times headed “The most famous butcher in the world” and several other magazines he just happened to have handy. Then Fabio took me to another building where the Signoras were busy cooking vast pots of meat – Dario only serves red meat, all coming from the same farm run just for him, in Spain. “I haven’t yet found an Italian producer to my satisfaction”. Nothing to do with it being cheaper then.
Next, we went to visit Fabio’s Uncle Pietro, an artist, who works (and sleeps) in an enormous vaulted room beneath what remains of Panzano’s castle. Fabio rapped on the door, “Arrivo” came the response. A small, round man aged about 60 opened the door dressed in an artist's smock and wearing blue glasses that had flashing electric lights running all round much as they do on highways at night warning you of upcoming curves in the road. The room was empty save for enormous brightly painted canvasses; a radio, artists' tools and an iron bedstead, recently vacated, in front of a window with spectacular views of the vineyards in the protected south facing section of Panzano. The whole room permeated by the seductive smell of oil paint. Turns out this building too belongs to Dario!
The following day I went to lunch with an English couple, Heather and David Roberts. Heather is a tall, thin, prison visitor and David looks just like Henry VIII. He has recently completed archiving the contents of Harold Acton’s Villa La Pietra in Florence. Just an everyday couple really.
Frustratingly David can’t release any of his work. Acton bequeathed Villa La Pietra and all its contents to New York University but his Will is now being contested by a local lady who claims she is an illegitimate child of Acton’s father. Ah Italia!
Coincidentally I had driven right by the Roberts’ front door without knowing it on a shortcut that Roberto (my Sat Nav voice and constant travelling companion) found for me on my return to Siena from Fabio’s the day before. This was an “Exiles lunch” as Heather had warned me on the phone. Apart from Heather and David and their son there was an Anglo Italian couple whom I had met previously, Bruno and Victoria Davanzzi, an American artist named Richard something and his wife Dorothy who live in Florence and a most extraordinary American trompe l'oeil painter who arrived in a car with Palm Beach Florida license plates. She lives in a "just fabulous" apartment near, if not in, Palazzo Pitti. I think her name is Tanya. If not it should be. She wore a large sun hat to protect her face. I never saw her eyes because she never took her dark glasses off.
I sat between Heather and Victoria and had a delicious Sicilian salad (mushrooms, capers, celery, peppers etc.) slices of pork (or was it chicken, yes probably) and lashings of the local vino. Victoria is delightful but quite deaf and not only has two hearing aids but points a little black machine at you when you’re speaking, which I found quite disconcerting.
I dutifully wrote my hosts, Heather and David, a thank you e-mail the following day and asked what Richard, the American artist’s name was. Heather’s reply was short and to the point.
Good to see you too, Bing. Richard’s name is Serrin
And David’s name is Mark
Woops!
Marco’s Motorino
OK perhaps I wasn’t as fast off the mark as I would normally have been. I was tired, I had driven my Land Rover down from Casciano and I was momentarily relaxing at the red light on via Petroselli without noticing that the lights had changed.
“Sono solo tre colori !” shouted some thug on a motorino behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror. A 25 year old wearing a battered orange helmet covered in Lazio stickers was sitting on a crappy little red motorino grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I wasn’t going to take this lying down. While I was trying to figure out which hand gesture might suit the occasion the thug sped by smiling disarmingly. Moments later, turning his head and waving goodbye, he cut in front of a police car and headed up to Lungotevere.
When I got to the flat I had rented in via Mameli I discovered that the previous occupants, thinking there were 31 days in the month of June, were still in residence. They were young, honeymooning Belgians so I did the honourable thing. I drove over to Prati and found a hotel.
The Hotel Splendid was anything but. An overweight, spotty, unwashed 20 year old with ‘See Me, Feel Me, Kiss Me’ on her T-shirt asked me to sign the register and, as I was only staying one night, to pay the full amount in advance.
The hotel was horrible. But I was only staying one night and by the following morning I would have my own flat. No lift of course so I lugged my suitcase up four flights of the narrow staircase to my room.
The interior decoration was deliberately insulting. A thread-bare armchair stood by the air vent/ window next to a broken luggage rack. A feeble grey telephone hung on the wall. A single light bulb was suspended from the ceiling encased in a frilly, onetime pink lampshade. The communal bathroom, I already knew, was on the floor below, but it was several minutes before it suddenly dawned on me that there was no bed. Even for the Hotel Splendid this was going a bit far.
I picked up the feeble phone and asked the girl in the sexy shirt where the bed had gone. “The very latest, in vogue, matrimonial bed you will find cunningly enclosed between the mahogany style bookshelves. Simply press the lever at the side of the left hand bookshelf to reveal your matrimonial bed with its double webbed Velux mattress as it folds out of the cupboard” She was obviously reading from some sort of brochure. I was about to make a comment but she hung up.
I went over to the tall cupboard between two plywood, not mahogany, bookshelves and searched for the lever. I pressed it and sure enough the fake cupboard doors fell away from the wall and formed the base of a matrimonial bed.
My room being sorted I left the hotel to find some sort of haven where I could at least observe civilised human beings in pleasant surroundings. I took a taxi to Eur, (‘Universal Exposition of Rome’) the Mussolini ‘satellite city’ where my Irish/Italian friend Michael owns Aqua Lounge, an outdoor bar restaurant swimming pool fitness complex. I paid the taxi and walked past the bouncers towards the terrazza.
As I started up the stairs I saw, parked by a tree, a crappy little red motorino with a battered orange helmet covered in Lazio stickers hanging off its handlebars.
Hmm.
There were several hundred people inside, all looking young, fit and capable of driving crappy red motorinos. Whilst keeping a weather eye on the crowd I had a couple of drinks with two girls I knew and went to pay the bill.
As soon as the cashier opened his mouth I recognized that smile. “So” I said “there are only three colours at a traffic light, huh?”
“Ma ?” he said as he dropped his jaw. Recovering, he pointed at me and said “You! The silver Land Rover! Ciao!” He left the till, came around the counter, kissed me on both cheeks and told me the drinks were on him. And bought me another one. Michael, the owner, came over to join us. Between cashier duties I learned that he was a playwright and an actor named Marco Calvani. He was already quite well established in Italy and Spain but he badly needed to make it in England. I gave him my telephone number even though I wasn’t sure there was much I could do to help.
Saying good bye to Michael and Marco I walked down the steps, past the lovely little red motorino and took a taxi back to the dreadful Hotel Splendid. Terrified that the bed would suddenly close on me in the night, locking me in for the duration, I spent the night on the threadbare armchair.
Now, three years on, Marco is the best of friends. He, Michael, Marco’s flatmate and fellow actor Elisa and I are all part of Marco’s company Mixo’ and yesterday I finished translating the second of his plays into English.
My ‘reward’ was a ride on the back of his brand spanking new black motorino. One thing you should understand about Marco is that he does a thousand things at once. His mind and body are in perpetual motion which is all well and good unless you are a passenger on his motorino. We started off, naturally enough, going the wrong way down a one-way street, weaving among the parked cars, yelling admonishments to drivers brave enough to criticize us and finally entered the rush hour traffic by Circo Massimo. We dodged cars and buses until we got to the head of the queue at the main crossroads, ignored the red light, and inserted ourselves into the midst of a flurry of motorcycles and motorinos that swarmed like wasps towards Piazza Vittoria.
All the while Marco provided a running commentary pointing out places of interest “there’s the FAO building; that’s my favourite bar, there’s the department store MAS, this is where Giancarlo lives…”. Each time he would look back at me to see that I was listening, appreciating, paying attention…..ignoring the road in front of him, oblivious to the cars on either side of us.
I of course had long since resigned myself to the fact that in all likelihood this would be my last journey, my final ride and that I would simply end up as another statistic on Rome’s daily quota of road accidents. We took a short cut across a pedestrian bridge over the railway line, through the No Entry signs at Pigneto, stopped off at Campobasso for a drink, found the bar closed so made for Monti. As we passed Santa Maria Maggiore I was momentarily tempted to convert before it was too late but my thoughts were interrupted by the squillo of Marco’s cell phone.
Entering Piazza Venezia on the back of a motorino while the driver is not only talking to you, looking at you as he does so, but simultaneously (everything Marco does is simultaneous) talking on the phone, is not a recipe for stress free living.
But it is infinitely preferable to driving down via Cavour at break-neck speed as he simultaneously texts messages to friends in Germany.
Somehow we survive to enjoy a celebratory marguerita at the bar in Monti before heading out to dinner with actor friends in via Mameli.
By the time dinner is over and it’s time for Marco to drop me off he announces that he’s a little drunk. Of course, the missing ingredient!
Fortunately I was too, so we had a nice, relaxed, trouble free ride home through the back streets of Trastevere, I think.
.
Ristorante
On my way to lunch I stopped off at a little hole in the wall “shop” called Spaccio Carbone. I wanted to buy a cooking implement the name of which I didn’t know in English, let alone Italian. It’s round and like a spatula – perhaps it’s a round spatula? I found a flat spatula hanging amongst the cobwebs and told the ancient owner that I wanted “a round one of these”. “Ah”, he said accompanied by various facial contortions, “faccio vedere”. He situated himself in the far left corner of the room surrounded by an assortment of dead (surely?) batteries, washing up materials manufactured long before such things as sell-by dates existed, baskets of assorted mouse-traps, soaps, alabaster Madonnas and plastic forks. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Not quite sure what was going on I looked around feigning curiosity but kept one eye on the old man. He opened his eyes and started to walk, head swivelling from left to right and up and down as he advanced. “Here?” he’d stop at one basket and search “No”. And then a little further on, the same thing. “No, no, no, no………” I was beginning to despair. I was already late for lunch and concerned my table would be given to some undeserving person who happened by. “L’ho visto, sono sicuro”, he was sure he had seen one (“In 1943, maybe” I thought to myself). He then returned to the starting position and once again took a deep breath and closed his eyes. I was about to call it a day when his eyes suddenly opened wide establishing eye contact with me, albeit involuntarily, for the first time. He walked, unimpaired, directly to a hanging basket, reached around to the side that had not seen light for a good many years, if ever, and ‘Eureka’ out came something like a spatula, only round.
“Ecco, 5 euros” he raised five fingers, helpfully, on his left hand. I could see that the label on the implement said 3 euros but given storage time, inflation since 1943 etc. I offered him 4 and left for the restaurant, his molto grazies ringing in my ears.
I don’t know what it is about me but restaurant owners tend to be ashamed of me. No sooner do I set foot in their restaurant, especially when I am alone, than they hustle me away from the daylight to the back of the room to sit among fifteen or twenty people, invariably with little children , far away from the more elegant parts of the restaurant outside in the sun or shade depending on the weather. Perhaps it’s because I look poor or don’t dress well enough? But seated in the elegant outside are Americans in dirty T-shirts and torn jean and Brits in outfits of clashing colours wearing socks with sandals! (Who was it that said they wished that wearing socks with sandals would give you cancer? ) What could be worse? Me, I guess.
But today I tried, I really tried. All my clothes are clean and freshly ironed; nothing clashes and I am wearing sandals, true, but with bare feet and I cut my toe nails especially lest anyone should be bored enough to take a glance. It’s all very perplexing. Plus I am invariably seated with the staff and today is no exception.
Firstly, there is the nursing mother to contend with. Every time I look in her direction she is fondling a breast while feeding her little girl. She always appears to be looking at me even though I try to time my glances to avoid such an occurrence. They say the birth rate in Italy is zero – you wouldn’t believe it if you frequented the sort of restaurants I frequent. The rooms are always buzzing with offspring barely nine months apart in age. And unlike in England, where they would be ignored if allowed in at all, here these babies reduce the entire adult population, me included, to babyhood. We stare at their antics, ooh and ahh out loud and interpret every sound and gesture as indicative of nascent brilliance.
And now I come to think of it these characters in the back of the restaurant with me are nothing to write home about themselves which makes their apparent disdain for me doubly mystifying. The mother of the children has a resigned air about her and, irritatingly, speaks in a dialect I don’t even recognize let alone understand. The presumed father (I’m still not quite sure of the exact relationships given that everyone acts as thought they are the adoring parents, but I hope I am safe in assuming that the breast feeding woman is the mother) anyway, the presumed father is wearing his trousers well below the recommended level for decency; and pretty soon the cook, looking like a matron in a particularly sinister psychiatric hospital, comes out from her den (the kitchen) and comes over all gooey and cuddly with the baby, in fact with all the babies.
It transpires that all twenty of these people are related, intimately so. The cook is apparently the grandmother (at least she is referred to as Nonna) the chief waiter is Nonno and the other waiter is Zio. I think he is also the brother of the children’s father. But that’s just a guess.
I sit respectfully quiet and adoring of the babies in turn.
When it’s time to pay the bill the father with his pants too low sends his eldest son (aged 3) over to me with the bill and a disposable camera. The kid’s aim isn’t too hot so he takes pictures of my sandals (perhaps it’s my freshly trimmed toe-nails?) and the floor. He hands me the bill. I give him a 20 euro bill for his Nonno, and a 20 centismo tip for himself. He says “Grazie Babbo (Father)” Now I don’t blame him for being confused but………goodness, maybe? No, no, no, three years ago?……. No, no, no.
Determinedly avoiding eye contact with the nursing mother I beat a hasty retreat.
Trastevere
I was served my coffee by the young person of indeterminate sex and sat at a small table outside the bar with the morning paper. Unlike in Naples where you are severely reprimanded if you attempt to read your newspaper and drink your coffee at the same time (coffee drinking being akin to a religion in Naples), in Rome they don’t give a damn. They don’t even make fun of tourists who order cappuccino (considered a breakfast drink) long past 10:00 a.m.
So, unmolested, I read, drank and viewed the early morning bustle in Piazza San Francesco a Ripa (St Francis by the Docks, which it used to be, the docks long since having disappeared).
I had a 7:30 a.m. appointment to visit the church of the same name and I was waiting for Monsignor Olivieri whose acquaintance I had made at a bookstore the previous day.
I was staring absent mindedly across the piazza when I noticed a short, plump figure, brown robes blowing in a welcome early morning breeze, making a bee-line for my table. Monsignor Olivieri was a monk on a mission and he had no time to waste. “Buongiorno, buongiorno” he grabbed my hand and virtually pulled me from my seat. Speaking and walking rapidly he started lecturing me “Now first, we are going to visit one of the small chapels which has an abundance of treasures, Simon Vouet, a follower of Caravaggio, he was one of the foremost painters of the 17th century as I’m sure you know.” ( ? doubtful. Ed.)
I couldn’t respond even if I wanted to, so out of breath was I. He swung open the church door and marched me direct to the chapel in question. My eyes were so transfixed by an enormous, ghastly, garish coloured sculpture of the Madonna that I temporarily lost concentration. The Monsignor never paused.
“As you can see Vouet’s Nativity of the Virgin is a very special capolavoro imbued with feeling and religiosity. And over the altar you will have recognised the Flemish artist Marten de Vos painting of the Immaculate Conception.” I was beginning to get worried that the Monsignor had mistaken me for some world-renowned art historian. Thankfully he was still in full flow, and unlikely to stop.
“Behind the chapel is the tomb of Giorgio De Chirico”
“Ah, the twentieth century metaphysical painter and sculptor” I said, having quickly read the notice whilst the Monsignor was talking about immaculate conception.
“Of course” he replied.
Passing over the second chapel, due to lack of time, he pulled back a rope at the third and brought me face to face with Saint Charles of Sezze (d. 1670). His body had been embalmed and coated with wax and now lay inside a glass box, all of which I found quite disturbing. I was interested to note that St Charles was holding a copy of one of his own publications in his hand. An original form of advertising ….
But Monsignor Olivieri was either running out of time or running out of patience so we only had time for one more chapel. “And here at last is Bernini’s famous statue of Blessed Ludovica Albertoni one of the highest expressions of the Baroque……….”
I don’t know what it is with Bernini and maybe I’m wrong but this lady, rather like his even more famous statue of Santa Teresa in the church of Santa Maria della Vittoria, is clearly experiencing some sort of ecstasy that would not normally be classified as divine, at least by the Church. Not wanting to linger too long on this thought lest the Monsignor should read my mind I concentrated hard on his explanation of how the rear wall of the chapel had been pushed back to allow two windows to throw more light onto Blessed Ludovica, which was of course undeniably ingenious of Bernini.
Time had run out. Monsignor Olivieri was required elsewhere. I thanked him effusively and stood for a minute in front of the church and watched as, to my surprise, he strode over to a miniscule Fiat Toppolino parked near the church, manouvered his considerable bulk into it and bumped across the piazza and out of sight.
In the afternoon I stopped for a restorative coffee at a rather seedy bar on the way to Via Porta Portese. The surly father, face twitching from some unfortunate malady, took my 10 Euro note and gave me change for 5 hoping I wouldn’t notice. I did and he reluctantly gave me a 5 Euro note. His unattractive wife and doltish son served behind the bar. I quickly downed the espresso and, as I left, I noticed a collection box with a few coins inside. Above it was a printed notice saying “For a family in need”. I had a pretty good idea whose family that was.
Near the corner of Via Porta Portese and Via Jacopo de’ Settesoli I passed by a dilapidated looking structure which I knew to have been the former Casa della GIL (HQ of the fascist youth group). It was designed by a guy called Luigi Moretti who seemed to have an instinct for sinister buildings. He also designed the Foro Italico (originally Foro Mussolini) to show off para-military prowess and the Watergate complex in Washington.
On account of my early start I opted for an early dinner at my favourite restaurant, Da Enzo on Via dei Vascellari. Marcello is the taciturn owner who’s excellent sense of humor is ignited by young female clients. For the rest of us no smile, he just points over his shoulder at a table and looks at you with the “e allora?” look so beloved of Romans (and Italians in General). They suddenly develop an extra few inches of thoracic muscle enabling the face to protrude frog-like from the neck; eye brows raised; eye balls popping out of their sockets (hands, if not otherwise engaged) in open supplication – the entire body involved in the unspoken but loudly clear exclamation, meanings ranging from “ so, what do you want?” to “what do you want me to do about it?” to “I can’t believe I am wasting my time talking with an ignoramus like you.” I am regularly subjected to all three and thus have come to interpret the multiple actions pretty accurately.
My friends Marco and Aldo joined me for supper. Lightly fried zucchini flowers and artichokes; polpette, spinaci, insalata verde and delicious tiny fragole with zucchero e limone. At 10:30 we walked to the local movie house to see Sex and the City. When the lights went up two and a half hours later we discovered we were practically the only males there and certainly the only ones over 18. Boh!
The Exiles Lunch
I drove up from Rome to Siena for a wedding only to find that it had been cancelled as the bride-to-be was suffering from post natal depression.
So I went to see my friend Fabio instead. He and his architect boyfriend Bruno run a “low cost” B&B (so low cost they omit the second B) in the Chianti hills above Panzano. Fabio’s friend Antonella prepared a delicious lunch – Bruschette with tomatoes and lardo, mm, Pasta piccantissima (a bit too), Apples, Pecorino and, unusually, a Tuscan white, from Trecciano – which we consumed outside, surrounded by flowering bushes of sweet smelling rosemary and irises, and views of vineyard covered hills beneath us. After lunch we drove down to Panzano to meet Dario Cecchini, the butcher (Macellaio) and poet who spouts Dante (particularly Inferno) as he chops. Unsurprisingly he is a popular regular on Italian TV. Fabio used to work there so it was kisses all around, tours behind locked doors (it is also a restaurant – or I should say, Casa da Macellaio) and a preview of MacDario’s (the Mac being short for Macellaio) an open air “low cost” (the Italians love this term) section of the restaurant, opening soon. Dario gave me a free jar of salt, a wet kiss, showed me an article from the LA Times headed “The most famous butcher in the world” and several other magazines he just happened to have handy. Then Fabio took me to another building where the Signoras were busy cooking vast pots of meat – Dario only serves red meat, all coming from the same farm run just for him, in Spain. “I haven’t yet found an Italian producer to my satisfaction”. Nothing to do with it being cheaper then.
Next, we went to visit Fabio’s Uncle Pietro, an artist, who works (and sleeps) in an enormous vaulted room beneath what remains of Panzano’s castle. Fabio rapped on the door, “Arrivo” came the response. A small, round man aged about 60 opened the door dressed in an artist's smock and wearing blue glasses that had flashing electric lights running all round much as they do on highways at night warning you of upcoming curves in the road. The room was empty save for enormous brightly painted canvasses; a radio, artists' tools and an iron bedstead, recently vacated, in front of a window with spectacular views of the vineyards in the protected south facing section of Panzano. The whole room permeated by the seductive smell of oil paint. Turns out this building too belongs to Dario!
The following day I went to lunch with an English couple, Heather and David Roberts. Heather is a tall, thin, prison visitor and David looks just like Henry VIII. He has recently completed archiving the contents of Harold Acton’s Villa La Pietra in Florence. Just an everyday couple really.
Frustratingly David can’t release any of his work. Acton bequeathed Villa La Pietra and all its contents to New York University but his Will is now being contested by a local lady who claims she is an illegitimate child of Acton’s father. Ah Italia!
Coincidentally I had driven right by the Roberts’ front door without knowing it on a shortcut that Roberto (my Sat Nav voice and constant travelling companion) found for me on my return to Siena from Fabio’s the day before. This was an “Exiles lunch” as Heather had warned me on the phone. Apart from Heather and David and their son there was an Anglo Italian couple whom I had met previously, Bruno and Victoria Davanzzi, an American artist named Richard something and his wife Dorothy who live in Florence and a most extraordinary American trompe l'oeil painter who arrived in a car with Palm Beach Florida license plates. She lives in a "just fabulous" apartment near, if not in, Palazzo Pitti. I think her name is Tanya. If not it should be. She wore a large sun hat to protect her face. I never saw her eyes because she never took her dark glasses off.
I sat between Heather and Victoria and had a delicious Sicilian salad (mushrooms, capers, celery, peppers etc.) slices of pork (or was it chicken, yes probably) and lashings of the local vino. Victoria is delightful but quite deaf and not only has two hearing aids but points a little black machine at you when you’re speaking, which I found quite disconcerting.
I dutifully wrote my hosts, Heather and David, a thank you e-mail the following day and asked what Richard, the American artist’s name was. Heather’s reply was short and to the point.
Good to see you too, Bing. Richard’s name is Serrin
And David’s name is Mark
Woops!
posted by Makonnen at 6:56 AM
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