Advertisement
Published: August 16th 2007
Look familiar?
This is the Arco degli Acetari, aka the courtyard of our apartment. It's one of the most picturesque spots in the city. Have a postcard from Rome? It's probably on there.Cyprus trees, those lanky, lofty-canopied
alberi begin to punctuate the landscape and I know our train is now rocketing, up to 180 mph, deep into Lazio, a central
regione in Italy that nestles in its heart Rome, the country’s capital and our temporary home away from temporary home. Over the last few hours I’ve had a blurred-eye view of the country’s changing landscape: picking up speed through the vineyards of the Veneto and Emilia Romagna regions; cruising through the olive orchards of Toscana and the vast swaths of sunflowers saturating Umbria; coming to rest, through Cyprus and industrial development, at Termini Station on Thursday just after lunch.
Amanda and I had gone to the station in Portogruaro two days ahead of time to make sure we were sold the correct tickets. Even though the ticket representative will take the time to go through the schedule with you, you have to walk in there knowing exactly what you want because if you don’t they’ll just sell you any damn seat and tell you it’s good (see:
Patrick & Amanda versus trenitalia, Round One (or, when the weather breaks, so does everything else) for refresher). Plus, we decided to purchase our return fare once we got to Rome, because the representative there probably knows
better what trains are leaving his station than the lady here in Porto having any clue which trains are arriving from anywhere else. With that final piece of business taken care of, we ride into the center of town and have a caffé in Campo dei Fiori and wait until four when we will meet the lady who has rented us her apartment for the next five nights at €60 a pop, inside a picturesque courtyard 30 meters from Campo. Of course, before we even begin our sojourn to Rome I’m expecting a top floor suite with a great, antique writing desk in front of a large picture window that gets plenty of sunset (and sunrise) overlooking Campo dei Fiori. Luckily, I’ve also come to expect that my expectations are completely off-base and—if I were more of an ignorant soul—would provide nothing but destructive disappointment descending deep into cavernous depression.
Dreams aside, the price and location sound almost as good as a hotel and better than a hostel, no? No. The basement space is miniscule—we were expecting that. The couch converts to the bed, which nearly touches the kitchen counter and kills my back; there is little light. We
hadn’t expected the strip of mold high on the wall that almost passes for decorative wallpapering. Or the bathroom, which is the toilet and sink
and shower stall in one convenient package: slide the bathroom door out of the wall and fire up the shower head and in about 30 seconds you’re standing in two inches of water that has flooded the entire bathroom, itself about 6 square feet. I haven’t showered in flip-flops since college. Then there’s the mini-fridge with a malfunctioning ice tray that floods the corner kitchen and the moldy rags we used to clean it up. The spiders and other bugs we’re OK with, but the drug-addled neighbor who has posted himself comatose in a chair outside our door? Hmm…There is one upside to all of this: we have no desire to sleep in or to hang out in our homestead, whereas one might have felt guilty for spending so much time out in the city while wasting five times as much money on an empty three-, four-, five-star hotel room that, at those prices, that they shouldn’t set foot out of.
The rest of Thursday reads like this: we sop up the drooling fridge
The Master of finger Puppets
This guy's been in Piazza Navona for years. He was doing the same routine when I was in Rome in December 2003 but it never gets old. I won't tell you who's on stage now, you'll just have to wait for the finale yourself. and toss the rags outside; we lock the two doors and double-check their strength; slip by the dozing addict and swerve around a group of tourists (really? here?) as we exit through the gate of our courtyard; we walk to Chiesa San Luigi da Francesi that houses a triptych of Carvaggio’s works—it’s closed; we join the legions of travelers inside the Pantheon to say what up to Raphael, who is one of many historical figures buried here, and we gaze 142 feet upward to the Oculus (aperture in the ceiling) that looks like a pinhead, but is actually 29 feet in diameter. It’s been about an hour since my last coffee and I’m starting to fade so we make a decaffeinated bee-line for
Tazza d’Oro (Cup of Gold), the premier coffee roaster in all of Rome. Immediately set at ease by the ceramic
chink-clink of dozens of cups and saucers and spoons and the sweet smell of fresh-roasted caffé I pay for my
Granita di Caffè con panna and head to the bar.
Granita di Caffé is the real iced coffee: it’s brewed espresso frozen with simple syrup to the consistency of a daiquiri with a couple dollops of extra
thick whipped cream,
panna—the coolest way to a quick buzz on a hot day. There’s really no other way to describe its perfection; it is a must-eat while in Rome, but you have to have it at Tazza d’Oro—everything else is pathetic imitation. Rejuvenated, we take an outdoor table at Bar della Pace for a couple glasses of
vino fragola, then manage to relax for an hour in our apartment before heading out to dinner. Thankful that a big city in Italy has variety, we opt for Spanish and share patatas bravas, paella, and acqua di Valencia. It's really good;
Amanda can give you better flavorings of our food tour. Afterward, we go for gelato and then find a table outside a café in Campo dei Fiori to watch the people flow in and out until the early morning.
Friday, August 11 This is our big tourism day. We’re up early and sit outside another Campo café and take a cappuccino for me and hot tea for Amanda, and a pair of
cornetti (croissants). We buy two
panini that we’ll eat later for lunch on the go and then walk to the other side of the piazza to wait for the 116, the short, electric-powered bus, to
take us to Villa Borghese. Along the way, at the base of Via Veneto (think Park Avenue) we hop off and into the
Chiesa Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappucini. Cappucin monks, with their brown gowns and white cord belts, are the models for cappuccino, that delicious coffee drink. Of particular interest at this church is the crypt. We’re not allowed to take pictures of this place but you can (read:
must) find pictures with a quick web search. The inside of the crypt is decorated with the
bones of more than 4,000 Cappucin monks collected in a period of over 300 years. There are piles of skulls, arms, ribs, legs, pelvises (pelvi?), full skeletons dressed in the cappuccin robes that resemble grim reapers—even the skeleton of a child mounted on the ceiling. Creepy. Awesome.
We hop back on the 116 that takes us to the Villa Borghese, an expansive plot of land and one very impressive mansion with an even more impressive collection of art. All of Rome is an art gallery where the air your breathe (and the occasional caffé to keep you breathing) is all the admission required to see hundreds of masterpieces, but a couple
The Villa Borghese
Just a modest weekend bungalow hours in the Villa cannot be missed. The Borgheses were one of the most powerful noble and papal families in 13th century Italy, but did you know that the word
borghese translates to middle-class? While the mansion was a weekend home, its primary use was to house their ever-expanding collection of art. It is well worth the €7.50 admission (student-discounted rate, thank you, Amanda) for two hours to see Caravaggio’s most famous paintings and Bernini’s most mind-blowing and flawless marble sculptures: “The Rape of Persephone” that shows Pluto’s fingers pressing deep into her fleshy thigh as she tries desperately to break away; and “Apollo and Daphne” the whole statue twisting in chaos with leaves so delicately carved and so light they appear that they would actually be blown away by a sudden breeze. It pours rain while we’re inside but by the time we’re finished the skies have cleared.
We catch the bus back into the city proper and because we still can’t bear to go home when it’s light outside we stop to talk with our friend, owner of an ex-pat bar near Piazza Navona. We tell him the name of the lady who rented to us her
That's one good riso gelato
Gelato made of frozen rice pudding apartment, as if he would know, as if Rome is a small, two-street community, as if everyone Italian knows everyone else in Italy, as if Rome is not a world city. Well, it is, and he doesn’t know her, but he understands our circumstance, nods knowingly. But just as my grand delusion on what I thought our apartment should be, he (or anyone else, yet, for that matter) has neglected to offer his place, or a friend’s or even knowledge of a nearby, decent (cheap) hotel. But no mind, we keep ourselves out in the city, to stay out of that
schifo apartment. I mean, what else did we come to Rome to do? He pulls two chairs up to a table outside and pours us a couple of glasses of some new Sicilian white he’s just received. We crack peanut shells into the cracks between the dark, slick cobblestones, shoo away the pigeons, watch the immigrants run, arms full of their illegal wares, from one end of the street to the other to avoid the
polizia. Then we go home to shower and change and clean up as best we can because tonight we’re eating at Mario Fazi’s.
Sitting in Piazza Navona
Watching the cops chase the fake bag merchants. The cops drive up to one end of the piazza and the merchants run to the other end. The cops drive to the other end and the merchants run back. The cops never get out of their car. No one gets busted. Everyone wins. We used to call Mario Fazi’s retaurant “The Old People.” It’s a simple trattoria, quintessential roman fare, tucked down a forgotten street with no signage that was once just run by two old people—Mario and his wife. They’ve since expanded the staff by two or three but the operation remains the same. Yesterday we stopped by to make sure they weren’t closed for vacation and when we were greeted out front by the old lady with the soft face and deep, comforting eyes we asked if we could make a reservation for Friday.
Sure, she said, smiling softly,
what time, eight? Yes, eight is fine.
For two? Yes, that’s perfect.
OK, lovely, and she shook our hands and touched our shoulders and wrote down not a word. Tonight we arrive and she is in the same place wearing a similar floral dress with a white apron and white handkerchief holding back her hair. She directs us to our table with one gentle sweep of her arm. Mario Fazi’s is not a restaurant; it’s more like a home. One waiter—think of him as a cousin—asks if you’d like red or white, sparkling or still. He disappears. Moments later another family member arrives with your wine and water and right behind her is the antipasti course—tonight: olives, fresh tomatoes in oil and vinegar, fried white polenta balls, prosciutto, lentils. Once we clean those plates, they ask if we’d like
parmiggiano in our pasta which is
pappardelle in a rosé sauce. That’s done and we’re on to pork roast,
bocincini (small balls of fresh mozzarella), baked eggplant, and house-fried potato chips. Dessert:
torta alla nonna and fresh-squeezed tangerine juice and caffé, by request, that takes so long you’d think they were roasting and grinding the beans themselves. They are. Finally, they tell you it’ll be €40 for the two of you. If you want more wine, or more lentils, or more anything you just ask. That’s it, no menu, nothing fancy. You eat what they serve, nothing less, but always enough.
Saturday, August 11 Morning in Rome and it’s cold. It’s August. I didn’t pack a sweater to come here. Because it’s not supposed to be cold. Because it’s August. It’s warmed up considerably from last night when it was downright freezing, and by the time we hoof it to the Vatican I’m glad it’s starting to feel like August again. We’ve come to sit in St. Peter’s Square under the ring of saints to write and watch the hordes of people amassing here. The line to get into St. Peter’s Cathedral snakes halfway around the perimeter of the square and is about 10 people wide. Surprisingly, it moves quickly so we decide to head in. It’s a nightmare inside the church. People are loud, and pushing, and stomping on my feet. Is this one of the holiest places in the world or is it an elementary school gymnasium run amok? We can’t get near Michelangelo’s
La Pieta. There’s a mass being conducted in one of the chapels and people are shouting. There’s a group of German priests on a tour and people are taking pictures of them like we’re in a zoo of rare animals. 10 minutes and we’re out. We mail a couple of postcards from the Vatican City post office, wait out the brief rainstorm and then wind our way back into the city center. Eat lunch at an unmemorable place and then, believe it or not, go back to the apartment and sleep.
Now it’s dinnertime. We eat at da Francesco, a popular, but not overly-crowded restaurant with typical Roman cuisine. We start with
prosciutto di montagna (prosciutto from the mountain) with warm flatbread and for the main course,
melanzane parmiggiana The food is incredible. It’s late now, and I’m sick of not getting efficient service that I don’t even order
caffé after dinner, if you can believe it—even the waiter looks at me like he’s thinking:
I know who you are and you can’t go two hours without caffé
and you want me to believe that you don’t want any now? We retreat to our usual café in Campo dei Fiori to watch the night take shape. Tourists and locals and merchants and hooligans, buskers and teenagers and little kids all mixing in a cacophony of whines and laughter and inebriation and cool, summer night pleasure.
Sunday, August 12 It’s late for a
cappuccino, as the barista eyes me (or so my paranoia tells me) from behind the bar. The
cappuccini in Campo are good, but grossly overpriced, so none worth recommending. One of the baristas speaks with me in Italian; the other speaks to me in English.
Sarò fuori, I will be outside, I tell him, and take a table in the shade. An Italian lady sits down beside me, orders
un’ caffé americano. Campo dei Fiori is quieting down as the tourists filter out of the daily market and on to their next stop, bookbags and fanny packs and maps and water bottles tight to their person. Our apartment’s grown on me, I think. Once you sleep a night (or three) and realize you’ve woken up in one piece then you know it’s you'll make it. Only appearances are disagreeable; turn out the light and all’s well. Italy is a dying country—it’s at its end. We’re late witnesses, no? Perhaps not. Two pigeons fly out of the café door and breeze over my shoulder, low until they're out of cover of the yellow awning. Signs of lingering socialism: the waiter takes the napkin holder from my table and presents it to the woman beside me.
Today we attack the commerce streets. I need a new suit but nothing’s what I want: so cheap they’ll vaporize tomorrow or too expensive for… well, just too damn expensive. Mostly, Amanda shops and I watch.
Dinner tonight is at Taverna Trilussa, just across the Tiber River in Trastevere. We cross the bridge, densely populated with more men and women selling more fake stuff, and bums and their dogs, one with a brand new litter. It’s sad to think these people use their pets for handouts, but a little comforting to see that at least all the dogs look healthy. I’ve got an appetite for this taverna, as I haven’t been here, but the street is quiet and before we reach the entrance we can tell they’re not open. Bummer. So we backtrack and head down one of the busier streets in Trastevere and into a random restaurant. And another gelato for me.
After dinner, we return to the ex-pat bar and sit outside where we meet a couple of young flight attendants. The one from Alabama would love to be a writer and tell her stories and have her name on a book. Me, I’d just like to be able to book a first-class flight to Rome for $60 that leaves in five hours. Grass really is greener, isn’t it? They’re sitting with a guy they met the night before. He’s not from here either, but has been in Rome for the last four years, going to law school and working for a small museum within the Vatican. I think he speaks impressively well for I have a hard time understanding most of what he says, but Amanda has a hard time understanding because he speaks quietly and has a terrible accent.
Monday, August 13 Call it a blessing, call it a curse that food service, bar service, any customer service moves so slowly here. Take five minutes to drink your caffé and the next hour to sit undisturbed and watch the world go by. Hopefully, you're not in a rush to make it to the theater because wherever you're going you're going to be late.
An old man empties his mop pail into the drain of the small drinking fountain and a younger man cuts him off at the spigot to fill a plastic cup, which frosts immediately, before he takes it in with one tilt of his head. The old man is gone and the young man refills his cup and drinks once more. I pull the wine glass to my mouth and a bead of sweat drips from the stem, soaks into my shirt and then evaporates into the dry Roman dusk. The last few days were remarkably cool but now all the August heat that was stymied is released and flaunts its power. We are, of course, ungrateful, even though in the bitter New York February winter we had wished for worse (heat, that is).
A couple of American ladies take the last empty table behind us in mid-conversation, ogling over the gorgeous Roman men, delightedly. “But they’ve got to have olive dark skin.”
The waitress is miserable and why shouldn’t she be? She’s working when no one else is. The outdoor seats fill up quickly and she does not get to our table for ten minutes. The ladies behind want something sweet to drink and I think to suggest a
spritz but then I don’t want to be tied to something they might not like. They’re from New York, I gather, because they gripe to Time Out Magazine that they aren’t finding the €1.50 glass of wine they’d been promised, instead resorting to one for €5. I neglect to tell them that, first, they’re in a very tourist-priced area and, two, if they want cheap wine they should ask for
vino della casa instead of ordering from the list. Shame. But, I feel excited. I feel a tinge like they must feel at the start of their vacation, just settling in after their flight, shedding their luggage, sitting down to a cocktail for their first time in a new city.
Amanda did a good thing last night, for our stewardess friends (who, incidentally, we saw around the Colloseum today; they “missed” their flight and were staying on for another couple of days): she shared Mario Fazi’s with them. Amanda had a bit of a long face while we were sitting at Mario’s that it was so full, that her secret was no more, that it was no longer hers only, but I told her it was a good thing. If no one came, if it was still her secret and was never shared then Mario would have no business and we’d have nothing to enjoy. So she shared and she smiled.
We go back to da Franceso for dinner, because--well, why mess with a good thing? The waiter won’t give me a table outside. The list is long, he says, but Amanda talks to the next guy who comes out of the kitchen and he seats us right away. Could be the beard, could be the accent, could be I’m a guy. Pizza and then large slices of juicy
anguria for dessert. Keeping with our theme of familiarity, I get a
gelato and we go back to Campo dei Fiori to watch the crowds. This is our last night, so we stroll a couple of laps around the Campo and then, one last time, pull the couch out into the kitchen for one last aching (my back, not my heart) night’s sleep.
Tuesday, August 14 Up, we pack, and we walk to the Pantheon for
caffé at
Tazza d’Oro. I’ve had their
granita di caffé twice but still never managed a cup of the hot stuff. An old man in the back of the shop is roasting the beans and so I buy a bag which is hot in my hands when he gives it to me. It smells so good Amanda and I go back for four more bags—OK, one more for me and three for gifts. Just as we escape a huge tour group fills the register area and the leader orders 29
cappuccini and one espresso. My heart sinks for the understaffed bar whose baristas don’t know what’s coming.
We go back to the apartment to meet our “landlady”, take our bags and go for lunch. Today is really hot. By the end of a too-big lunch of
prosciutto e melone and a pizza I am so drunk from the sun I can barely keep my eyes open. Then to kill another half hour before we have to be at the train station, we stop at another café. I’m so tired I can barely keep my head off the table and I’m thankful when we pay up and head out. Earlier in the day we thought it’d be nice to get a dinner reservation in the restaurant car, but after that big lunch in the sun and two hours of sitting in an un-air-conditioned coach we’d had enough of conversation and entertaining and waiting on other people (namely, waiting for the servers). Amanda asks one of the conductors, sitting in the cool of the café car, with his buddies, doing nothing, what was going to be done about the heat in the rest of the train. Big problem, he says, yeah, terrible problem, really, really, bad. So we move into a first-class car and read, coolly, in silence. Some time passes before I stop sweating and I walk to the café car and bring a Fanta back to my seat. An hour after that Amanda gets up and returns with a toast of prosciutto and cheese and the little boy sitting ahead of us turns to he what he can smell and I close my book and watch the country pass under the setting sun below the horizon on my left.
My flickr page Amanda's blog--read it!
Advertisement
Tot: 0.128s; Tpl: 0.015s; cc: 11; qc: 46; dbt: 0.0502s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb
