Back in the US of A

Nine hours of torture on an airplane and I am back in Philly where the weather sucks!

My last day in Rome was spent in classic fashion-- workout with Aramis and then walking, walking, walking from Trastevere up to Piazza del Popolo and then back again. I stopped at our favorite wine bar for my daily end of the day ritual of a glass of prosecco. I was the only one there at 7 pm so I had a chance to talk at length with Fulvia, the bartender. It turns out her dream is to make beer!

After dinner--spaghetti con vongole--with Christine, I head home across the Ponte Sisto for the last time. There is a crescent moon in a sapphire sky and a party in the the streets of Trastevere. Arriverderci Roma.

Home again, Rome again

Jane and returned to Rome this afternoon after our sybaritic interlude in Positano, a magical spot of blue sea and blue sky and winding roads climbing up and down the cliffs. As much as we enjoyed being there, it felt really good to come back to Rome and Vicolo del Cedro 12.

We dropped our bags and headed out to the streets, now wonderfully familiar, for lunch and some last minute shopping. It’s hard to believe that I have only one day left to my incredible Roman adventure. And to think this was all Steve’s idea. The man did have a vision which I have done by best to fulfill.

Escape to Positano

How is it possible that Steve has lost weight and I have gained a minimum of five pounds since coming to Rome?

Oh, well. I am in Positano celebrating my birthday in grand style with Jane. Having jettisoned our husbands, we couldn’t decide how to spend a few days on our own after several forced marches in Rome. We rejected going to Paris not wanting to face the hassle of going to the airport. We thought about going to Puglia, the region on the heel of the Italian boot, but neither of us felt like driving six to eight hours to get there. Finally, Jane had the inspired idea of taking the train to Napoli and then going to Positano on the Amalfi coast. So here we are at the gorgeous and luxurious hotel Il San Pietro (after a stop at Pompeii--an amazing experience) where I stupidly stepped on the scale and got the bad news. The damage is, I believe, a minimum of five pounds since hotel scales are always light; the hotel doesn't want you to stop eating all their food.

Which we did last night since one of the reasons we chose this hotel was due to the one star Michelin rating for the restaurant. (On the basis of one meal, I would say the rating is justified.) At dinner, we righteously shared a pasta--something fabulous with spinach, onions and cheese topped by a zucchini blossom filled with cheese and then lightly fried—and an order of red mullet with capers and tomatoes. We did drink a bottle of amazing red wine (less fattening than white) recommended by the sommelier but passed over the dolci and ordered a frugal dessert of fragolini--tiny wild strawberries senza cream or sugar.

However, the “diet” didn’t last too long. Immediately after the fragolini, the waiter presented me with a decadent and delicious confection of pastry and cream and raspberries complete with birthday candle. (Thank god there was no singing.) How could I resist?

The Biddies do Rome

Which means the biddies eat well, walk a lot and have a good time without worrying about the geezers i.e. Steve and Bob.

Jane claims I have led her on two Bhutan death marches but I swear we have just done my normal everyday circumlocution of il centro storico. What counts is the meals. Yesterday lunch at La Rosetta, a top seafood restaurant outside the Pantheon, followed by dinner at Rosciolo, an amazing enoteca and deli just across the bridge near Campo dei Fiori. Today, lunch at Osteria Margutta on an art filled street near the Piazza del Popolo followed by dinner at Le Mani in Pasta in the quiet part of Trastevere.

Roma by the glass, the title of a new book by Ellen Solms with commentary by Jane Toll.

May Day, part 2

This is May Day in Rome.

The city is closed up except for the hordes of tourists, both Italian and foreign, tramping around in weather warm enough for tank tops and flip flops. I’ve decided that German tourists wear the ugliest clothes followed closely by the British in their sensible shoes and Americans with backpacks. The French somehow always manage to look chic even when carrying maps and guidebooks.

All the stores are closed except for those selling souvenirs. Traffic is so light on the streets you can cross the big streets without fear that a kamikaze motorcyclist will knock you down but the big piazzas are wall to wall people. The performance artists and venders must be raking it in today.

May Day

May 1. A huge holiday in Italy. I woke early to an eerie Sunday like silence. No sounds of school kids outside my window, of cars or motorcycles or people on the street. I haven’t been out yet but I am curious to see what shops and restaurants will be open today.

Yesterday I had a glorious, leisurely time all on my own in Rome. I wandered all through il centro storico with an occasional stop into a church or store for a quick look around. I took a break at the Piazza del Popolo for a glass of prosecco and some serious people watching. Then, late in the day I went to the Palazzo Massimo for my daily dose of culture. Incredible! On the first floor, rooms and rooms of ancient Roman sculpture. And then on the second floor, a truly astounding collection of mosaic pavements and wall paintings some dating from the time of Augustus. Almost too much to absorb in one visit.

It was nearly dark when I got back to Trastevere but I ended the day with a glass or red wine at our favorite wine bar before finally going home.

I'm still here

Steve left this morning for 1520 Spruce Street but I am still clinging by my fingertips to Vicolo del Cedro, 12. We have had the most glorious three months together in the most beautiful city. And now I am blessed with five days alone and perfect spring weather.

After kissing my honey goodbye, I headed off to the gym for another session with Aramis. Who needs the Sporting Club and all those yuppies? Later in the afternoon, I hiked all the way through Testaccio to San Paolo Fuori Le Mura, yet another grandiose basilica with a veritable forest of huge granite columns and gorgeous mosaics. On the way home, I stopped to buy dinner—fresh fava beans, fabulous aged pecorino from Volpetti and, for dessert, unbelievably fragrant fresh strawberries.

Philadephia seems very far away.

In vino veritas

Well, Bob and Jane are now on their way to Sicily leaving us all alone except for the five extra pounds I am sure we are carrying around now.

The last six days have been an eating and drinking marathon interspersed with the occasional long walk, mainly searching for artichokes. Certain important discoveries were made. For example, it is possible—at least for Bob—to eat pasta and pizza at the same meal. And, yes, one can eat a huge lunch with two tankards of white wine and five hours later go on to eat dinner and drink two bottles of red wine.

Steve leaves tomorrow and I am putting myself on the wagon—well, maybe just a glass of wine at sunset—for the week I am here by myself.

Late breaking news of great excitement and import

LIZ AND GIUL ARE OFFICIALLY ENGAGED!!!

One is silver and the other gold

I’ve lived here for almost three months but new discoveries are still possible.

Yesterday while doing the the grand tour of il centro storico with Bob and Jane, we went into the church on the Piazza della Minerva and discovered a chapel with delicate frescos by Filippino Lippi I hadn’t seen before. After the requisite period of oohing and aahing, we went up to the roof of the hotel next door where new surprises awaited us—a fabulous view over the Pantheon and a refreshing new cocktail of Aperol, prosecco and soda water, a perfect addition to the menu in Maine. It’s a beautiful orange color and goes really well with Rome’s terracotta colors not to mention a plate of prosciutto and sweet melon or perhaps a caprese salad of mozzarella, tomato and basil.

And then there's the thrill and the luxury of revisiting old discoveries again. Like stopping in to the Palazzo Barbarini for a quick session with amazing paintings by Bronzino and Carvaggio. Or eating at Piperno for the third time and ordering carciofi alla guida yet again. Absolutely the best in Rome!

Perle Mesta comes to Rome

Sitting around waiting for Bob and Jane to arrive. So what else is new?

The last few days the weather has been positively bipolar. Brilliantly sunny and warm enough at times to wear one of my new pair of sandals (!) and then a tremendous thunderstorm with dramatic and startling lightening and torrential rainfall.

Last night, we entertained at home. Aramis, my gorgeous and lovely Cuban trainer, and his girlfriend came over for drinks. We polished off a bottle of white wine from Sicilia with cheese and my new obsession, fava beans. Conversation was interesting since his girlfriend spoke no English but I gamely tried to talk Italian and some how it worked.

A little later, we all walked out to a near by wine bar and finished off the evening with a bottle of delicious red wine from Sardegna and some more cheese and salami. Steve claims I fell asleep with my glasses on and holding my book. This I don’t remember.

The last supper

Last night, Christine took Steve, me and Jeff to what she described as a simple trattoria serving traditional Roman food. No menu. The owner just recites a short list of pastas for the first course and then a few meats and vegetables for the secondi.

It was when the plate of heart and lungs and artichokes was placed on the table, all looking very dark and green and not very appetizing, that I realized that this was the first night of Passover. Oy vey, my mother would not have been happy. She would be pleased to know that I did not eat the heart and lungs but that I did drink four glasses of red wine—Brunello not Manaschevitz.

They should pay me to live here

I should be doing this for a living. At age 60, I’ve got a whole new career—personal cicerone in the Eternal City. I can thread my way through the streets of Rome leading you to the Pantheon, Piazza Navona on to Fontana di Trevi and Piazza da Spagna, the Piazza del Popolo and back. I know what churches to stop into to see the Carvaggios, where to get the best gelato and I can do this all while spouting off lots of random information with an air of great authority.

My map is in tatters but I’m not buying a new one. I’ve got three more weeks and I’m finally off book.

Excursion

Yesterday we finally got off our asses and out of Rome for the day. We drove to Tuscany on the sea to look at a villa with Alex, our rental agent here in Rome, and his friend Roberto, owner of the villa.

The villa is lovely and right on the ocean although the countryside around it isn’t nearly as pretty or as interesting as the areas inland in Tuscany we’ve looked at. It was a gorgeous day and we sat outside in the garden enjoying the view while Roberto, an excellent cook, whipped up a delicious lunch of pasta with eggplant. Throughout the day, Alex’s cell phone kept going off—his ring tone is the sound of car siren!—and we listened in awe as he effortlessly switched between French, Spanish, English and then back to rapid Italian. All this while driving, too. He says his Portuguese is even better than his Spanish and he can speak a little Chinese having lived in Shanghai for a few years.

On the way home, we stopped at the near by town of Talamone to look at the marina, the usual scene with fisherman repairing their nets. When we stopped for coffee in Porte Ercole I had my first maroconini, a coffee, cream and chocolate confection that was absolutely delicious and definitely gave me a buzz. For a moment, I considered making this new drink a regular feature of my day but then I thought hey, I've given up diet coke why take on another possible addiction. And, then, there's always prosecco.

Fava fever

Tonight we went to a new restaurant for us in Trastevere where I discovered a fabulous new food combination. Fava beans with pecorino cheese. Picture this. A huge plate of enormous fava bean pods plunked down in the middle of the table looking like edamame on steroids. You eat them the same way, slitting open the pods and popping the raw fava beans into your mouth but this time accompanied by a bite of pecorino cheese. Highly recommended. I ate so many!

In addition, we ordered another new favorite—puntarella, a Roman seasonal specialty of crisp chopped chicory hearts dressed in a pungent anchovy and oil sauce. Incredibly fresh tasting.

The eternal question

Every day when we come back from tramping through Rome with Elliott and Jeelu, we look forward to getting up on the roof for a “few nibbles” as Steve says before we go out to dinner. The problem is the weather does not cooperate. It’s beautiful and sunny when we’re out on the street but at the end of the day, the clouds come and the temperature goes down.

Tonight is no exception. I’ve left the three of them up there, wrapped in coats pretending to see a non existent sunset while I lay out a spread of cheese, olives and prosciutto to enjoy inside where it’s warm.

The big question tonight is what and where to eat. We’ve done fried artichokes Jewish style at Piperno, crudo and pasta a Le Mani in Pasta, fabulous thin crusted pizza at Dar Poeteca in our neighborhood. Now we have to figure out the right taste and the right location for their last night in Rome.

Such problems.

Shoe fetish

We haven’t had pasta in three days. When will we begin to experience withdrawal?

Anyway, tonight we vow to eat pasta again. Shall I have pasta con vongole, my favorite, or a cacio e pepe, the local specialty, or maybe I’ll go crazy and order a creamy risotto.

Yesterday I led Steve on another marathon walk across the river, past the Piazza Venezia and all the way up the Via Nazionale to the Piazza della Republica in order to see what remains of the Baths of Diocletian. What remains of a facility that could once accommodate 3,000 hedonists at one time isn’t much. In the mid 16th century, the vast main room was turned into a church with soaring, vaulted ceilings designed by Michelangelo. As with the Baths of Caracalla, most of the statues and wall decorations were removed by later popes and placed in their palaces for private ogling.

This afternoon, while Steve lazed on the terrazzo recovering from yesterday's excursion, I headed uptown again to the Palazzo Barberini which has just reopened after extensive restoration and boasts a collection of i capolavori of Italian art—Raphaello, Carvaggio, Bronzino, etc., etc. etc. There was hardly anyone there so I could feast my eyes on the incredible artwork without jostling for position.

I walked home through the Piazza di Spagna and, I must confess, I bought an amazing pair of shoes—veramente un altro capolavoro del arte italiano. This brings to a total three pair of shoes that I have purchased in the two and a half months I’ve been here—not a bad weekly average. But I make a silent but solemn oath not to even look at another pair of shoes for the four weeks I have left here.

Cicerone in training

I am proud to report that Steve has recently served as cicerone and done a very good job of it. Yesterday, he insisted in leading me on a walk aross the river to the Ghetto, past il Compidoglio, along the Forum and onto the Colosseum. Once there, we stopped for lunch and then I led us to the Cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore and a long walk home through Monti and past Trajan’s market.

Today it was my turn again and despite the pouring rain, Steve agreed to leave the house in the afternoon to walk to Palazzo Venezia in order for me to show him the exhibit of Sebatiano del Piombo. We both got soaking wet walking home but it was worth it. The exhibit was even better the second time.

Tonight was also our second experience of ethnic food in Rome. This time it was Vietnamese cuisine. And once again, I was surprised that the waiters spoke no English but only Italian or French. Food was just OK. Definitely needed additional hot sauce to bring it up to Philly standards.

Life is short

A quiet Sunday in Rome. We didn’t even venture out until late afternoon to get the necessary fresh oranges for next morning’s juice.

We haven’t said anything to each other yet but I know Steve and I are both feeling sad that our days here are slowly slipping away. It seems incredible to me that over two months have passed and that in less than a month Steve will back in Philadelphia and me soon after. I’m already making mental notes as to what I need to do and see before I leave: Must go back to the Borghese Gallery, visit the Vatican Museum, take a trip out to Ostia Antica, visit Augustus’ house on the Palatine, eat a fried artichoke at Piperno, etc. The list grows longer as the time gets shorter.

But of course the whole point of this experience is not what we see and do but how we live here everyday, finding a natural rhythm to our life here, feeling comfortable and at home at Vicolo del Cedro 12.

Sing-a-long

I told Nicoletta that the hardest part of learning Italian for me is comprehension. So today she waltzed in—all in red, by the way--with a disc of songs by some soupy Italian rock star. Over and over again, I listened to one bathetic love song, Il Nostra Concerto, while trying to decode the lyrics. At one point, Nicoletta sang to me in a sweet voice. She obviously loves this singer and this particular song.

The two Steves—Solms and Lyons—were off to the Borghese Gallery for the afternoon. We met up at the end of the day in Piazza de Popolo for the requisite prosecco. They cabbed back but I walked home. I’m always trying to figure out new ways to get back to Trastevere from uptown. This time I deliberately bypassed the usual landmarks—Ara Pacis, Piazza Navona and the Pantheon. Zigging and zagging along, I found myself at times on some streets that were new to me. Finally I headed for the river and home.

Sushi

It must be spring. The older man who sits on the bench at the corner of Vicolo del Cedro has finally taken off his coat—a big, heavy parka with a fur trimmed hood I’ve seen him wear every single day. I notice his little dog is still wearing his knitted jacket. You can’t be too careful.

Two nights ago, Steve and I decided to do something we hadn’t done before—eat ethnic food in Rome. For our first venture into non Italian cuisine, we opted for sushi. Conveniently, there is a well regarded sushi restaurant just a short walk from our house.

I found the whole experience somewhat disorienting. The restaurant reminded me of Shiroi Hana, our go-to sushi joint in Philadelphia. The layout was similar and the clientele the same—lots of yuppie looking diners on dates or slightly older academic types—except they all spoke Italian. The problem was I kept expecting the Japanese staff to speak English but, no surprise, they spoke Italian. For some reason, I found this confusing despite the fact that the sushi was excellent and included all our favorites.

Sempre prosecco

At around 4 o’clock today Steve and I walked out together to sit in the sun and have our daily afternoon prosecco when we discovered something shocking—no alcohol served today in Trastevere until 11 PM. “Perche?" I asked in amazement. Because, I was told, of the soccer match tonight between Manchester and Roma. Must be quite a scene at the stadium.

Whatever. Che sara, sara. We ventured across the bridge to the Piazza Farnese for our drink, not an option to complain about by any means.

Yesterday was yet another touristic marathon sponsored by Ellen and Steve Solms this time for the benefit of Linda Loeber. We crossed the river, walked down the Circus Maximus, admired the Arch of Constantine, circumnavigated the outside of the Colosseum, and then after a refreshing lunch of crudo and cozze, were astounded by the Basilica of San Clemente. The church dates from the 12th century (don’t quote me here) but is built on the ruins of an ancient Mithraic temple. As you descend some 30ft. below the church floor you are literally going back, back, back into time. It’s a thrilling and mysterious experience and one that Steve and I vowed to revisit before we leave.

Linda and I then walked on to San Giovanni in Laterno, a huge Renaissance church and, not ready to call it quits, pressed onward to the Cathedral of Santa Maria in Maggiore. Whew! Finally there was the long walk back past the Forum, Piazza Venezia, il Campidoglio, the Ghetto, across the bridge to Trastevere. Somehow we roused ourselves for dinner. God forbid, we should miss a meal.

On my own, part 2

Wow! It must be 70 degrees today. I’ve opened the shutters and hung my laundry outside to dry.

All the tourists in the Piazza di Santa Maira in Trastevere are stripped down to teeshirts and even occasionally flipflops (not recommended footwear on the cobblestones) but the Roman women, especially the older ones, are still wearing boots and heavy coats. Perhaps they don’t trust the warm weather.

As part of my continuing participation in Culture Week, yesterday I trekked out to Testaccio to visit Macro Future, a comtemporary art museum in a renovated old power plant. Actually, my real goal was Volpetti, Rome’s greatest deli and a true temple to Italian cheese, salami and other Italian delicacies. I had to wait until 5 o’clock when it finally opened. (What do they do in the mid afternoon?) I was so hungry that I immediately wolfed down two delicious fried rice balls filled with tomato sauce, rice and some kind of meat. I definitely must bring Steve back here. The salami selection alone will astound him.

Today, I decided to walk to the Palazzo Venezia to see a restrospective of paintings by the Renaissance painter Sebastian del Piombo, a contemporary of Michelangelo and Raphael. I’ve never heard of him so the exhibit was a revelation to me—exquisitely painted and moving portraits and religious scenes. The exhibit was also beautifully hung to maximum effect and best of all, it’s just the right size—some 27 paintings—so that I could absorb and appreciate the art without feeling overwhelmed.

On my way there, I did stop off in the main square of the Jewish Ghetto which was crowded with families—Italian or Jewish, who knows since we all look alike—chatting away at full speed and full volume. The restaurants were packed and spilling out into the street. Not a bagel or a piece of lox in sight but lots of yummy looking fried artichokes, Jewish style. I made a note to myself: Must have one soon.

On my own

Spring is here. The sun is out; it’s 65 degrees and Nicoletta came today dressed all in pink—a low cut pink sweater in a leopard print (Where does she find these clothes?) a pink knit skirt, a pink rose pinned to her jacket, a pink pocketbook and, for the first time, no hat on her blonde curls.

After my lesson, I head up town to the Palazzo Doria Pamphili for another dose of culture. The palazzo is built around an inner courtyard planted with lemon and orange trees. The gallery upstairs, all gold and mirrors, reminds me of the Barnes—painting after painting, hung in no apparent order, cover the walls. The recorded guided tour is narrated by a current member of the family in a very proper British accent. He fondly recalls rollerskating in the ballroom!

I’m kicked out at 5 pm but not before spending some serious one on one time with the gallery’s prize possessions, a Velasquez portrait of Pope Innocent X, and an early Carvaggio.

Afterwards I head past the Forum towards the Colosseum to Monti, a neighborhood new to me which, according to my guidebook, is an up and coming area. It’s a quiet and sweet district with few tourists walking along its narrow, hilly streets. Up and coming seems to mean that there are many small boutiques and galleries here. I diligently stop into every one of them.

As the sun is setting I start to walk back to Trastevere but not before climbing up to il Campidoglio to enjoy once again the view over the city. Liz asked me the other day if I was tired of all this yet. Certamento non!!

High on culture

This is culture week in Rome which means free entry to many of the museums. I’ve decided it’s culture week for me too since Steve is away in Amsterdam--experiencing culture no doubt--and leaving me free to wander from gallery to gallery without worrying when to feed him.

His leaving was not without a little drama. Last night I prudently thought to give him his passport in case I forgot in the morning rush. Guess what? No passport. At some point in the last few weeks, it must have fallen out of my pocketbook or been lifted. Who knows. Bottom line we showed up at the American Embassy at 8 this morning so that Steve could get a new emergency passport in time to make his flight to Amsterdam.

I spent the aftrnoon at the Galleria Borghese, a virtual treasure house of sculpture and painting. Bernini, Bernini, Bernini, Carvaggio, Carvaggio, Carvaggio, Raphael, Raphael, Raphael. I left feeling the same way I often feel after a fabulous meal--sated with pleasure and slightly dizzy from all the richness.

We are tourist superstars

Steve and I ran the marathon today. Well, not really, but right now it feels like it.

We started off at noon in the Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere. The piazza was full of families strolling in the bright sun and moving in and out of the church. A crowd was standing around a young woman playing the cello to recorded piano accompaniment. Lovely. Everyone seemed very relaxed.

We left the square, crossed the river and walked to the Aventine past the Circus Maximus, site of ancient chariot races and now a favorite spot for joggers, to Terme di Caracalla, an amazing 25 acre complex of buildings that served as a sporting club and spa of sorts for Romans in ancient times. The scale of the buildings is awesome and once again we were lucky not to have deal with crowds of tourists but could stroll through the ruins at our own pace.

After wandering through the palaestrum (“Aha,” said Steve. “That’s where the Palestra got its name.”) the frigidarium, the tepidarium and the calidarium—soaring vaulted spaces now open to the sky but where one can occasionally see remnants of mosaic flooring and fragments of wall decorations—we headed up one big hill and then down another to Testaccio, a working class neighborhood we hadn’t been to yet.

By now it was past 3 and we were both getting more than a little hungry but unfortunately it seemed like every restaurant or food store was shuttered for the long Easter holiday. Finally, we dashed down a side street and found a small trattoria bustling with business. Thank god! Even better, the food was fabulous, definitely fatto a casa especially the tiramasu, the best we’ve had in Rome so far.

Fueled by a bottle of the house red, I decide we can’t leave Testaccio until we see more despite the fact that the weather has turned cloudy and cold. Steve follows me obediently as we drudge through the deserted streets to my goal—an old power plant now restored as a contemporary art center. Purtroppo e chiuso oggi. So we head across the river and begin the long, long, long walk back to Trastevere.

Six o’clock we are back at Vicolo del Cedro 12 just in time to escape a downpour. Perfect timing.

An Orgy of Joy

Steve has coined an apt phrase for what we are experiencing in Rome—an orgy of joy. No wild sex today but definitely a lot of fun.

Easter Sunday began with a torrent of rain accompanied by thunder and lightening. (The weather here lately has been unstable to say the least. Two days ago we had a hail storm. ) Finally, around 2 it looked like it might clear up so we ventured out intending to go to a free concert of music by Duke Ellington in a church near the Campidoglio. I never did find the right church but we decided to plow through the crowds around the Piazza Venezia and somehow found ourselves at Trajan’s Market, which has only recently been excavated. The space looked particularly beautiful after all the rain, the stones and ruins glistening in the sudden sunlight. What was best of all was there were hardly any people there. We could wander around the ruins without negotiating through hordes of tourists.

Afterwards, we stopped into a café for steaming mugs of fabulous hot chocolate and then walked back to Trastevere in the late afternoon. Steve got to watch a basketball game on Sky TV while I did some laundry. We are fortunate to have a lavatrice but it seems like no Roman household comes equipped with a clothes dryer. When it’s raining, I drape our clean but wet clothes on the bannisters and the radiators. It works.

After the game, we walked to a yet another pizzeria just a short walk from out house that we’ve been meaning to try. The verdict after sharing a thin crusted five cheese pizza: outstanding!

Easter Weekend

Easter weekend in Roma. The weather is not cooperating. It’s rainy and cold. Surprisingly, the city doesn’t feel particularly crowded. Maybe everyone has fled to the south and sun.

It seems that nobody works for these three days. Even the gym is closed until Tuesday. I can't imagine the Sporting Club closed for three full days. There would be crowds of angry anorexic women and muscle bound bruisers pounding on the doors to be let in.

We’ve been tooling around the city with Tony and Patty. Yesterday I led them up to the Campidoglio and then to the view over the Roman Forum. We wandered through the streets of il centro and stopped for lunch at a restaurant specializing in fresh bufalo mozzarella. Later we made our way to Via Margutta where Steve popped in to a tiny parrucchierre run by a two brothers and one son for a haircut and beard trim. Everyone agrees he's looking very Italian now with an ultra short haircut and new red glasses. He, of course, loves the attention and stops frequently to look in the mirror and admire himself.

After a brief stop for a glass of prosecco at a café on the Piazza del Popolo, we headed home to Trastevere to rest up for the next main event--dinner. This time we ate a restaurant new to us up on the Janiculum hill above Trastevere. Very white and modern, it felt like eating in a hip Philly restaurant except for the fact that its wine list was much bigger and better.

Normal life

It’s back to our old routine at Vicolo del Cedro 12 now that Liz and her friends have gone. Not that I am complaining. There’s nothing wrong with a routine that begins with fresh squeezed blood orange juice, a workout session with Aramis/Adonis, a delicious lunch of fresh buffalo mozzarella over arugula at home and then a leisurely walk along Rome’s cobblestone streets to a piazza where we have a prosecco and watch the world go about its business. And let’s not forget dinner and a bottle of wine.

My Italian lessons with Nicoletta have resumed. Yesterday she was a vision in turquoise including turquoise tinted leopard print shoes that that must be seen to be believed. They looked particularly killer worn with lacy black stockings. And of course the entire outfit was accessorized by turquoise colored costume jewelry—multiple rings and bracelets, earrings and even a matching watch—the full regalia. Nicoletta is truly the chatka queen of Roma. I am really looking forward to seeing her attire this afternoon. So far I have not seen the same outfit twice.

If only my Italian was as coordinated as Nicoletta's clothing. I still feel ridiculously incompetent as a student. The worst is when I say something in what I think is correct Italian and the person I am speaking to looks at me blankly. And the second worst thing is when they respond in a torrent of Italian words, very few of which I manage to comprehend, and I can only nod and say, "Si, si." At least I can make a reservation at a restaurant and successfully order food. For this, Steve considers me "fluent."

Our first take out meal

Last night with the girls. Abby, Asha and Sanaya are still here. Liz left this morning. A truly lazy day…at least for me. I putter around the house doing laundry after Liz’ s departure and then meet up with the rest of the crew. We have a long, long lunch at a little red checkered table cloth restaurant in Trastevere where Steve and I have gone several times before. It’s more crowded than we’ve ever seen it—Sunday lunch is a big deal in Rome. By the time we leave, it’s almost 4 o’clock and time for a nap.

I swear I will never eat again or least not for 24 hours but somehow dinnertime rolls around and everyone’s thoughts drift towards pizza. Steve is “starving” of course so some time after 9 we head off to our local pizza place fueled by a bottle of incredible Ornellaia wine we’ve downed accompanied by cheese and olives. When we are told that the wait will be an ora minimo, I have the inspiration—let's porta a via.

Fifteen minutes later, we are in the dining room of Vicolo del Cedro eating three incredible thin crusted pizzas and drinking the second bottle of Ornellaia.

Good vibrations

There’s a reason that for almost one week I’ve not had time to read a book, do the crossword puzzle or write a blog entry. The girls—Liz, Asha, Abby and Sanaya—have been living in our little house, bringing with them glorious spring weather and a blast of energy.

Our days start late. Believe me, it’s not easy getting four girls out of bed, out of the bathroom and out of the house. Our usual routine starts off with a short stroll to the Piazza di Santa Maria de Trastevere for a tall glass of blood orange juice and a cappuccino. Then a leisurely ramble to an area we haven’t seen yet for lunch and perhaps a mid-day prosecco.

I am the official cicerone leading them on our daily excursions and they are a most appreciative and willing audience. All of us—including Steve!—walk and walk and walk and walk. . . to the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, the Ghetto, the Campidoglio, the Vatican, the Trevi Fountain, Campo di Fiori, the Spanish Steps, Piazza del Popolo and then back to Trastevere at the end of the day. It certainly helps that the weather is sunny and warm, perfect for both our long walks and then for chilling in the piazza once we get there.

Even at night, we are out on the pavements walking across the Ponte Sisto to a fabulous restaurant that I have carefully selected for just the right combination of good food and good vibes. Our dinners have been especially fun with the girls. There’s nothing like walking into a restaurant with four beautiful young women and watching heads turn and waiters smile. Each night we toast to being together in Rome. We all agree that Rome is an “amazing” city, that Vicolo del Cedro 12 is the most charming house and that Trastevere is absolutely the best neighborhood to live in.

After dinner, we stroll back together to Trastevere, where a party is always going on. Perhaps we stop for a drink at a hip and happening bar but then Steve and I head back to our house, eager for bed. The girls, of course, stay out and I love to hear their reports the next morning on the late night scene.

Italian Bar Mitzvah

I have Italian homework to do tonight. I’m supposed to write some 150 words about a person, place or experience that I am very excited and enthusiastic about. Of course, I plan to write about Maine.

Thank god Nicoletta doesn’t make me do dictation exercises. That was the worst part of studying French in high school. I must be getting a little better, though. Today I was able to understand the directions on how to add credit to my Italian cellulare.

Nicoletta has been dressing in a relatively restrained fashion lately. I wouldn‘t call her style demure but no plunging necklines or leopard prints recently. Instead she wears lots of purple and lots of lace but still those dangerous high heel shoes.

Late this afternoon, Steve and I walked Jonathan up to the Fontana di Trevi where we joined mobs of school kids screaming, “Take my picture.” So I did, too, take a picture of Jon and Steve tossing two coins over their shoulder into the fountain.

After putting Jon in a cab to meet a school friend, Steve and I headed off for a walking tour of the area. Michelin in hand we walked up to the elegant Piazza di Quirinale where the president of Italy lives and where there is a beautiful view over the rooftops of Rome especially in the late afternoon when the light is golden. Two churches later we headed back down the hill and took a circuitous but picturesque route back to the river and Trastevere. Our twilight stroll lasted almost an hour and while we walked, the sky turned a deeper and deeper sapphire blue. Looking up I could see a crescent moon and even a few stars. And, most exciting to me, little yellow buds on the chestnut trees along the river. Spring is definitely on the way.

Tonight, our last with Jonathan, we went to yet another local pizza place. We sat in the back room with about 20 Italian kids celebrating someone’s 13th birthday with French fries and pizza and a lot of noise. The mothers, not a father in sight, sat in the front room drinking carafes of wine and periodically checking in on the party. The girls, looking quite sophisticated with stylish haircuts and cool clothes, sat at one end of the table while the boys ranging in looks from nerdy to adorable hung out at the other end. Just like a bar mitzvah. I’m convinced they were all Jewish. We left after the birthday cake was brought out.

Youth

Rome with the boys—and Roz, too—is a lot of fun. They eat a lot, drink a lot, walk all over and manage to stay up much, much later than us. Steve and I can’t wait to toddle home and jump into bed after dinner—it’s after midnight, for pete’s sake-- while they are busy calling and texting to arrange a whole new session of socializing.

Yesterday morning, we all walked over to the Campidoglio, an incredibly beautiful Renaissance piazza designed by Michelangelo. There we met up with Anne Ahern for a three hour walking tour of the Forum and the Palatine. The sun was finally shining and despite the crowds—every school kid in Europe is here right now—it still felt incredibly peaceful to wander through the ruins. Up on the Palatine Hill, where Augustus and other Roman emperors built their homes, the grass was strewn with wildflowers and kids were picnicking or just hanging out and enjoying the warm weather.

This morning Ross and Roz, particularly diligent tourists, woke up relatively early after their late night to go to the Vatican. Steve and Jon are out for a walk which probably means they are “having a bite” somewhere and I am home alone quite happy doing the laundry and trying to make sense of Italian TV.

We are not alone

The end of togetherness. The boys—Jonathan and Ross—are here.

Jonathan’s arrival on Wednesday night was particularly dramatic. Somehow—too much red wine or just old age—I had forgotten to give him the number of our house. So for almost two hours, he wandered up and down the narrow and rainy streets of Trastevere looking for us. Finally, at about 12:30 (Steve was already sound asleep) I heard someone calling my name. I poked my head out the window and eccola! there was a very wet and cold Jonathan Beck. To prove I was still a good and caring aunt, I stuffed him with cheese and salami and sent him to bed.

Next day, Steve, who can talk of nothing except food to anyone who will listen, treated the boy to a huge lunch at one of our favorite trattorias. Despite the nonstop rain, Jonathan and I walked off the pasta (homemade, of course) with a speed walking tour of il centro. Piazza Navona, check; the Pantheon, check; the Spanish Steps, check.

Dinner was at a neighborhood pizza place so now Jonathan has experienced the two poles of Italian cooking—pasta and pizza.

His mom will be very proud, though. This morning, while I was at the gym and unable to provide cicerone services, Jonathan and a friend went to the Vatican, something I haven’t managed to do yet since we’ve been in Rome.

Uptown girl

Time to get my hair done. But where? I don’t want come home with purple hair or weird highlights. Finally after some research, I make an appointment at Noi, a tiny salon uptown off the Piazza del Populo. It’s owned by two transplants from southern California—Massimo is originally from Rome and Rick is pure LA with artfully tousled grey hair and a schtick that never stops.

It’s a long walk from the grit and chaos of Trastevere to the high rent district but Steve is a good sport and comes with me. What else is he going to do? He sits and drinks at a cafe while I am made gorgeous by Rick. Afterwards, I switch into cicerone mode and make him look at the Carvaggios in a church on the piazza.

We walk back to the Piazza da Spagna along the Via Margutta, lined with pricey galleries and antique shops. The mood in this part of town is elegant, expensive and exclusive—not at all like where we live. It’s a nice change, though, for the afternoon.

Despite the cold and damp, I decide to ramble all the way back to Trastevere. I pass through the Piazza Navona, make a quick stop at the Pantheon and visit yet another church with a painting by Carvaggio. I’ve decided that Carvaggio is my favorite painter. His saints have dirty feet.

Crash

I can’t do it anymore. Tonight I stood firm. I am not going out to dinner. Instead, I actually stayed home alone and ate tuna fish salad on bread. Ok, it was Italian tuna fish not Starkist and the bread was wonderful crusty whole wheat bread from a local bakery. And I did pour myself a glass of red wine to go with it. But I couldn’t face another plate of pasta or another thin crusted pizza from al forno del legno. What I’m yearning for, actually, is a nice whole grilled fish drizzled with olive oil and accompanied by a salad of fresh rugaletto.

Maybe tomorrow.

Pizza or pasta, part 2

It is possible to survive on a diet of pasta and pizza and artichokes. I am living proof.

Steve is obsessed by salami. He came home today from a trip to the store (yes, he goes food shopping in Rome), loaded with three different kinds of salami and a loaf of crusty bread big enough to feed a family of 12. All this, he says, in preparation for “the kids,” despite the fact that Jon and Ross aren’t due until this weekend and Liz and her crew will be here next week. The whole first floor of our little house now smells of salami.

Tonight, yet another dinner of pasta con vongole, my favorite. I am careful to order a plate of grilled radicchio as well. Max would be proud.

This afternoon I walked across the Ponte Sisto to return the movies we rented. Nothing like watching a movie in bed on my MacPro. (Steve lasts about five minutes before the snoring begins and I tell him to turn over.) The video store is just a short walk from Campo dei Fiuori and Piazza Navona. Enjoying my time alone, I wander around the area debating whether to treat myself to a gelato or a glass of prosecco. Instead, I stumble into a church to discover that it features three amazing paintings by Carvaggio. I only leave when a large group of tourists arrive and start clambering for position in order to take pictures and videos. I don't mind because I know I can come back.

Pasta or pizza

Sins of spring in Rome: It’s getting warmer every day. There are more tourists on the streets. I saw fresh fava beans in the market this morning.

Sunday afternoon we were lucky to score a table in the sun at a café on the Piazza Faranese. We sat there for two hours, first nursing coffee and hot chocolate, moving on a little later to a glasses of prosecco and finishing up with panini. The only thing missing was the New York Times and I had already done the puzzle the day before. The rest of the afternoon we strolled around the district finally walking back to Trastevere along the riverbank for the first time. Not too many people down there yet; just the occasional runner and some homeless people encamped under the bridges.

That night we tried to get into two small restaurants in our neighborhood. Both had crowds standing outside. Once seated, we had a serious decision to make. Should we go for a thin crust pizza or home made pasta with a simple sauce of fresh pepper and cheese. (I can really tell the difference now between home made pasta and the box variety. Home made has a very distinctive and complex texture--softer but firmer at the same time.)

Life is tough.

Back in Rome

It’s feels good to be back in Rome—the noise, the graffiti, the crowds on the street. And, miracle of miracle, Telecom has finally come through and I have an internet connection at Vicolo del Cedro. I’m all ready to Skype.

We say hello again to the people in our neighborhood—I wonder if they noticed we were gone. There’s the older man who sits on a bench down the street with his two little dogs and smiles at me as I go back and forth all day. Today, he was carefully giving a hair cut to one of the dogs and piles of dog hair littered the street. Then there’s the owner of the newsstand where Steve buys his many papers every morning. And the woman in the bakery where I stop to buy a fresh piece of pizza bianco after my workout with Aramis.

During the day and especially in the morning, Trastevere, our neighborhood, seems like a little village. Heavy gates are pulled down over many of the restaurant entrances and only the shops that cater to the locals are open. By late afternoon the crowds of young people arrive and it feels like a party is going on. Souvenir venders set up tables full of cheesy merchandise at the main intersections or piazzas. Restaurants set up tables and chairs outside and bars are overflowing. Last night we stopped for a drink at a particularly popular bar overlooking one of the piazzas. (We were, of course, the oldest people there.) The bartenders, in tatoos and dreadlocks, were whipping out the drinks to a eager crowd of 20 somethings who then went outside to smoke and hang out or stayed inside to chow down on the huge table of free food in another room.

I had spent the afternoon alone wandering around the historic center getting lost but not really. I love walking up and down all the little streets and alleys with a vague sense of where I am and where I ultimately want to go. I have to keep reminding myself to walk slowly, to stroll down the street like an Italian instead of racing down the sidewalk like an American. Old habits die hard but I must be making progress. Twice during my afternoon stroll, I was asked for directions by Italians!

Two days in Tuscany

What is the antidote for a severe case of cultural overload? Red Wine. And during our first day in Tuscany we are inoculated for life in Montalcino, a picturesque walled town up on a hill overlooking a gorgeous Tuscan landscape of rolling hills.We’ve been driven here by John Bird who met us in Firenze on Monday morning.

Inside the gate of the fortress a football sized tent is erected in which some 150 producers of Brunello wine are busy introducing their newly released vintage to an eager and noisy crowd of distributors, buyers, importers, restaurant and enoteca owners, etc. from all over Italy and the world. . . and Steve and me. Like everyone else when we enter we are given a notebook in which to record our comments, a large glass and, best of all, a pouch to put around our necks that is perfectly sized to hold the wine glass and leave our hands unencumbered. I recognize instantly that this is the perfect accessory for sunsets in Maine on the dock.

For several hours, we wander up and down the aisles sampling Brunello from various producers, small and large. We quickly learn the ritual—swishing our glass with water to cleanse it of the previous taste, swirling the newly poured sample in the glass before drinking, inhaling the aroma and then, at last, having a swallow. Salute!

Late in the afternoon and after much Brunello we leave—with six of those handy wine glass pouches in my purse—for our hotel in the even smaller medieval village of San Quirico d’Orcia, our base for the next two days in Tuscany.

The village, like all the others we see, is absolutely charming, absolutely clean and populated by a people who look like they have been selected by central casting—wizened old men sitting out by the café on the main square drinking coffee or knocking back a shot of grappa; squat housewives doing their daily marketing; young mothers pushing baby carriages; workmen in overalls shouting to each other over the sound of their tools. I feel like I am in a movie set.

We spend the next day with John Bird driving the curving roads through the countryside, a magical landscape of gently undulating hills, vineyards and wheat fields. The hills are punctuated by lines of cypress and pine trees, often announcing the entrance to a villa or castle. We get out to walk through the walled towns that, miraculously, are empty of tourists and tour buses—the season doesn’t start for another month or so. We stop to share a prosecco in an entoteca, salivate over the locally produced pecorino cheese and, of course, enjoy a long lunch featuring a special pasta of the region and, what else? a bottle of Brunello wine.

Our last morning, we drive through the Val D’Orcia where John lives. On either side of us, wide open vistas open up in silence to the hills in the distance. The landscape is stunning in its simplicity and grandeur. I stand in front of a villa looking out at the view and it is as if I am staring out at the ocean with waves of yellow and green and brown instead of blue. I have the same sense of witnessing something timeless and constant and, above all, deeply satisfying.

Alla prossima volta.

Cultural overload

Another gorgeous sunny day in Firenze, perfect weather for pounding the pavements.

With Steve in tow and map in hand, I head up the hills from the city center. We are just 10 minutes from il centro but soon it feels like we are in the countryside. It’s a steady up hill climb on a curving lane between ancient city walls and groves of olive trees. After a stop for lunch at an enoteca filled with hip looking young Florentines with their equally adorable bambini, we keep going up and up, stopping frequently to look back at the magnificent views of Firenze and the surrounding hills.

Several hours and at least two churches later, we walk back down to the city and our hotel suffering from severe cultural overload, the cure for which is dinner and a bottle of wine. Works like a charm.

Culture Vultures

The last time Steve and I were in Firenze together was some 38 years ago on our honeymoon. Can we recapture the magic or even remember it?

First stop today is the Palazzo Vecchio and, yes, I vaguely remember being here long ago clutching my green Michelin guide like a bible. Today the square is crowded with student groups and tourists from all over the world but here I am again, guide book in hand, dutifully lecturing Steve on the history of the renaissance. Like before, he is a very compliant listener following me through the many rooms of the Palazzo Vecchio and gazing up at the frescoed ceilings with a stunned expression. After a break for lunch—even the most devoted cicerone has to eat--we head for some other must-see sights—the Duomo, the Campanile and the Baptistry. I am determined to do it all. And Steve is with me every step of the way except when I climb the 414 steps up to the top of the Campanile.

Stuffed with culture, we take off through the narrow streets for some serious window shopping. It takes incredible discipline but I resist the impulse to buy shoes. I’ll wait for spring in Rome. Instead, Steve buys two sweaters while we chat with the salesgirls, both of whom are intensely interested in the American political situation and want to know who we support—Obama or Clinton.

Steve heads back to the hotel for pre-dinner nap but I’m not quite ready to rest. Instead, I decide to get a manicure. The hotel sends me to a large salon near by where it’s packed and noisy with music blaring and hair dryers roaring. My manicurist is a beautiful young woman with a tattoo on her wrist and a stud in her chin. We smile at each other a lot since she speaks not a word of English and somehow I can’t muster the courage to say something in my pathetic Italian.

Soon it’s time for the main event—dinner—and tonight we experience one of the best meals we’ve had in Italy. The restaurant, Olio and Convivium, is set inside a gastronomic store that sells wine, oils and specialty foods from the region. This is a good sign. The menu is small and the wine list huge. Another good sign. These portents are borne out by the food. We share a platter of four different kinds of prosciutti, followed by pumpkin ravioli in a creamy, truffle flaked sauce. Then Steve goes for the grilled lamb with artichokes and I opt for monkfish in a saffron flavored broth. Both are stupendous. Somehow we make room for dessert—a poached pear with cinnamon and caramel ice cream.

Fortunately, it is just a short walk across the Arno back to our hotel.

Off for the weekend

It’s Saturday morning in Firenze where we have gone for the weekend, our first trip out of Roma. Our room overlooks the Ponte Vecchio and the Arno It’s very peaceful except for the roar of motorbikes and cars that zoom along at frightening speed in the narrow street below. (In Italy, it’s clear, pedestrians do NOT have the right of way.)

We arrived yesterday to bright sun and 60 degree temperature after an easy train ride from Roma. The train was packed with chic looking passengers all jabbering away on their cell phones. I noticed one woman working dueling cellulari for the entire hour and a half of the trip.

Firenze is like a jewel box, full of rich and precious things. It’s much smaller and more compact than Roma and the scourge of graffiti hasn’t arrived here yet. The streets are crowded with tourists and lots of students, both Italian and foreign, and, for some reason, lots of Japanese, clutching cameras and shopping bags, of course. After checking in, we hit the streets, first stopping for a celebratory prosecco and then finding our way quite by accident to the PItti Palace, once the headquarters of the Medicis and now a huge museum. Crowds of young people are lying on the pavement outside basking in the sun but when we get inside, the galleries are almost empty. What an unexpected pleasure to be able to wonder through this overwhelming profusion of incredible artworks without having to jostle for position. Even Steve is impressed.

We spend the rest of the afternoon slowly meandering around the narrow streets, avoiding getting run over, peeking into doorways and gazing into shop windows.

And then, of course, we go out to dinner. The restaurant is just a short walk across the Ponte Vecchio—gorgeous with the full moon over the Arno. We’re seated next to a large table of good looking, well dressed Italians who are scarfing down huge bifstecks fiorentina and various yummy looking side dishes. Steve looks longingly at the slabs of meat. It’s all I can do to restrain him from grabbing a bone.

Not to worry, he gets a steak for dinner while I opt for gambieri con fagiole after first sharing some antipasti and a pasta—some kind of wrapped thing in a creamy sauce. Whew! And, let’s not forget the bottle of red wine, a delicious Ornellaia, my absolute favorite.

By this time our neighboring Italians, talking and laughing non stop, have moved on to dessert—huge cream topped cakes—and tiny glasses of limoncello and coffee, followed by yet another glass of something. Inspired by their example, Steve and I decide to split a dish of gelato ciccolato and Steve tops it all off with a shot of grappa. Basta!

The Real Reality

Let’s face it. We live from meal to meal. Today is a perfect example.

Breakfast is a non-event except for the fresh squeezed orange juice made from Sicilian blood oranges. It’s enough to make a girl give up Diet Coke for good. Then there’s lunch which today I pick up from various salumeria and bakeries in the neighborhood. We’re talking fresh bufolo mozzerella, artichokes alla romana, thin slices of pork stuffed with spinach and sweet pachinos (tiny tomatoes) from Sicilia, accompanied by a few wedges of pizza bianca.

As for dinner tonight, we decide to leave our neighborhood and try a restaurant near il Campo di Fuori just a 10 minute walk across the Ponte Sisto. First we stop for a pre dinner prosecco at some random bar and then we head for Al Bric. It’s adorable—a tiny restaurant with an open kitchen and an awesome wine list. To begin, Steve has gorgonzola with pears and walnuts all wrapped up in a crisp pastry package--a winner-- while I start with the more ordinary baked tomatoes topped with parmigiano. Next course is home made pasta with broccoli and pine nuts for Steve and tiny home made gnocchi and baby octopi for me. Both are fabulosi. All this washed down with a dynamite Brunello from Montalcino.

Last but not at all least is a selection of goat cheeses accompanied by a drizzle of delicious honey. By now, we are truly in heaven. We get up to leave and discover it’s raining for the first time in nearly two weeks. Non c’e problema. Holding on tightly to each other, we totter home carefully over the slippery cobblestones feeling very righteous that we resisted dessert.

Seize the moment

We live here now and I have proof. Yesterday we go to the gym and are given membership cards. So exciting. Last night, we go to a restaurant for dinner where we have gone before for lunch. We are recognized by the waiter and are given the list of specials for the evening. The restaurant is just a simple trattoria with red checked tablecloths but the vibe is so sweet and the pasta perfectly al dente. The waiter shakes our hands when we leave.

Today NIcoletta outdoes herself. I want to take her picture but don’t want to embarrass her. She totters in wearing 4” stiletto boots—amazing how she walks on these streets without falling flat on her face—a leopard printed dress that leaves nothing to the imagination except a lacy black bra. She’s carrying a leopard printed handbag and a Versace shopping bag. And let’s not forget the accessories—leopard printed gloves, matching scarf and an entire collection of coordinated jewelry. Despite the fact that she dresses like a prostitute, she is intelligent and serious and, most importantly, a wonderful teacher with a passion for Italy and the language.
Late in the afternoon, I walk Steve across il Ponto Sisto to Wonderfool, a men’s salon where he is to be transformed into a new man. While he is getting a massage, hair cut and beard trim—he now looks like Julius Caesar—I wander up and down the district checking out the art galleries, antique stores and boutiques. Fortunately or unfortunately I discover Joan Shepp in Roma and do some serious damage. Nothing like retail therapy wherever you are.

Soon it is time to rendezvous with Steve at Parco dei Principei, a hotel near the Borghese Gardens where we have been invited to have an apertivo with some sketchy Italian politicians. (Italian politics is scherzo to say the least. These people are all for Berlusconi and big fans of Bush!) I start out on foot thinking I have time to walk there. I stop into a church where I find myself all alone with a fantastic altarpiece with chubby cherubs by Reubens. Further on, I walk up the steps to il Campidoglio, a magnificent piazza designed by Michelangelo with romantic views over ancient Roman ruins. It’s absolutely gorgeous especially under the full moon but I am hopelessly late for our appointment. I grab a cab and have my first experience of a Roman traffic jam. Cattivo!

One prosecco later, Steve and I head back to Trastevere and have dinner at a restaurant just minutes from out house that I’ve had my eye on since we’ve been here. Seafood is the speciality. We share a plate of crudo, then split an order of pasta with baby octopi. Molto bene. Steve’s tuna is overcooked and the service is not as good as the food but nobody’s perfect and now we know.

Instead of bagels and lox

It’s Sunday afternoon. The sky is blue, the sun is shining and it’s time for Romans to to go out walking with family and friends. We‘ve arranged to meet a new friend, Christine, an Australian woman who’s worked here some 20 years and lives just across the bridge near the Campo dei Fuori. Her apartment, on the second floor of an old palazzo, is charming with beamed ceilings, tiled floors and windows overlooking a sunny, plant filled courtyard. The rooms are filled with books and art and artifacts from her travels as well as a huge fat cat, the usual companion of single women in Rome.

One of Christina’s many jobs is preparing podcasts about important Roman sights so she is full of arcane information about the city. With her leading the way we head to the Piazza Navona, awash with pedestrians and bikers, and then on to the Pantheon where our job is to listen and critique her latest lecture. Despite the crowds of smartly dressed Italians, often in furs, and foreign students dressed in the universal uniform of jeans and sneakers, we are once again impressed by the majestic simplicity and age of the building. And now, thanks to Christine’s research, I can tell you anything you ever wanted to know about the Pantheon.

Afterwards, it’s time for Sunday lunch, an important event on the Roman calendar. Christine takes us to a tiny restaurant specializing in fresh fish. Tables are crowded with multi-generations of Roman families—squalling babies to doddering grandparents. The family behind us has even brought the dog—a tiny, hairless thing with big brown eyes. It sits on its owner’s lap, perfectly behaved, and is fed bits and pieces from the table.

We start off our lunch by sharing a plate of assorted crudo, the Italian version of sushi followed by pasta with seafood and the requisite bottle of wine. Then, it’s a slow walk back to Trastevere so Steve can watch some of the All Star hoopla on Sky TV and I can read a book.

AT THE MOVIES

Saturday night and what do we decide to do but go to the movies. Italians love the cinema and there are many theaters all over town but for some weird reason, most movies, no matter what the original language, are dubbed into Italian. Fortunately, we find one that is showing “Charlie Wilson’s War” in English with Italian subtitles. The movie is fun but I am more interested in seeing how the very colorful and idiomatic language of the film is translated into Italian. Don’t think I’ll be trying out those words with Nicoletta.

We might as well be back in Philly at the Ritz Theater. Cost is the same, crowd looks the same and yes, you can buy popcorn and soda as well as gelati, liquor and some tasty looking pastries.
Afterwards, we walk home. The night is perfectly clear and the streets are surprisingly uncrowded. We walk down the Via del Corso, a major shopping street, past the buildings of Parliament and somehow wind up at the Pantheon which looks especially mysterious and awesome at night with no crowds of tourists surrounding it, just birds wheeling above the dome.

Back in Trastevere, it looks like Saturday night. The streets are thronged with young people. The bars and restaurants are full. A new hostaria has just opened and there’s a celebration going on inside that spills out into the street. The owners, two short balding men, stand in front jostled by well wishers while music blares from inside. Someone is handing out paper cups of wine to guests and random passers by. Every morning on the way to the gym, I’ve watched the progress of the renovations. Now we’ll have to see how the pasta and pizza measure up.

Not wanting the evening to end, we decide to stop off and have a glass of wine at a wine bar around the corner from our house. We are clearly the oldest people in the joint but what the hell, we feel young.

A BUSY PERSON IS A HAPPY PERSON

How is it with nothing really to do, there is not enough time in the day to do anything.
This morning, we are off to the gym by 10. (Well, I go first and Steve follows.) I run home to shower and change and then we set out across the Ponte Sisto at 12:30 to look for a men’s salon that some one has recommended for Steve. Three hours later, we have strolled up and down through picturesque streets and piazzas, stepped into a bar for the now obligatory early afternoon prosecco, ducked into random palazzos to marvel at painted ceilings and ancient statuary, stopped for lunch and a bottle of wine at some nameless trattoria (where the pasta is home made and cooked perfectly all dente) and still haven’t reached the point of our excursion.

Non c’e problema. We are happy to keep moving, looking in shop windows (where everything is reduced by 50%!), having a quick cappuccino and eccolo!, finding ourselves quite by accident at Piazza Navona amidst crowds of tourists, street artists, buskers, students and just ordinary Italians enjoying this magnificent outdoor living room at the end of the day. Like every other tourist, we run into Tre Scalini for a cup of gelato (fior di latte for me and ciccolata for Steve), our first in Rome, and sit on a bench to watch the world go by and the sky turn a deep lapis blue.

Finally, we decide to head back towards the river and Trastevere but not before making one more stop at a fabulous salumeria whose windows beckon Steve with a gorgeous display of cured meats--.salamis, hams and sausages of all shapes and sizes—as well as cheeses and assorted goodies. (Confession: I, a non-meat eater, have decided to eat pork products while in Rome. Too delicious to pass up.)

Some time around 7 we arrive home to Vicolo del Cedro with Steve carrying the food and me the other packages. (Yes, 50% off was too good to resist.) We’ve done nothing all day but wander and look and walk and wander and, of course, eat and drink. Another great day. Now where should we go to dinner. . .

Giusi (Josie)

Today is Thursday. Time for Giusi, our weekly cleaning lady to come. I absolutely love her. She's short and round and talks non stop about everything while she runs up and down the four floors of our house. She speaks very little English and my Italian is suspect but somehow we carry on a conversation. Like every Italian we meet, she is fascinated by the American election. She favors Signora Clinton while I tout the virtues of Senatore Obama. Bush, we agree, is cattivo (the worst). I hear all about her son, Joe, who is si bravo because he wakes up at 3:30 every morning to drive a big truck (camion) from the central fruit distributor to the all the big hotels in Rome. He comes home at noon, eats and goes to sleep, she says with a smile and is so proud of him.

Then, I hear about her many cats. (Something about single Italian women and cats. They love them and they are all over the streets.) Giusi sleeps with her cats and definitely doesn't want a man in her bed again. Basta! Then she tells me an elaborate story about how her cat gave birth to three little kittens that she found in a box and a dog nursed them. At least I think that's what she said. And the vertinario said it was incredible. Veramente. I nod fervently not knowing what else to add to that conversation.

She really gets going when she starts to talk about Italian politics which, everyone agrees, are crazy or schizo or scherzo. I hear all about Berlesconi and what a bad guy he is--a drug dealer, a womanizer, etc. etc. If I understand her correctly, she once served as a cook for him but refused to go back because he is no good with lots of women and mafiosi hanging around.

According to Giusi, Rome is too expensive, too noisy, too dirty. She is from a small town in Puglia near the sea where the streets are always clean and there is no sporco. For some reason, which I don't understand, she longs to go to Spain, where, she says, the government is stable, the streets are clean and the king tells the politicians to be nice to each other.

Oh well, each to his own. I absolutely love being in Rome. Every day, when I walk out the house and down the streets of Trastever, I think how incredibly lucky I am to be here. Ciao.

Nicoletta, Part Due

The theme of Nicoletta’s attire today is red. This means red spike heels, a bright red fake Birkin bag along with a red hat and scarf and the requisite matching jewelry, and lots of it. She still wears the dark black sunglasses to cover her eyes but today, at least, they are not as swollen and bruised as when I first met her. She is going to the surgeon this afternoon to get her stitches out and I am very curioso to see what she will look like without the bandages.

Our lesson is interrupted several times by the doorbell—Kenny has come visiting and in quick succession John Bird followed by Kenny’s two travel companions. “Una festa degli uomoni,” says Nicoletta. putting her dark glasses back on and smiling. “Are any of them good looking?” I tell her they are all troppo vecchi and leave it at that.

Last night we met Kenny for dinner at Due Ladroni, on old style restaurant obviously popular with the rich and famous. We are treated like visiting vermin by our waiter who is blatantly contemptuous of us when Kenny asks for burro with his bread and a sweet dessert wine before dinner. (He condescendingly reminds us at the end of the meal that we can leave another 10% tip on top of the bill if we so choose, all this with a leering smile.) All the male customers are very, very tan and very, very old and accompanied by very, very young and gorgeous woman wearing tight clothes and lots of make up.

Something about Italian women and make up. Even early in the morning at the gym, they come in with eyes elaborately and effectively made up. Not planning to sweat, I guess.

And the newcasters. From time to time, I flip on Italian news on the TV on the advice of Nicoletta. She says it will get my ear accustomed to the sound of Italian. That may be so in the distant future but right now I hear a meaningless musical soundtrack punctuated occasionally by a word or two I am so happy to understand. But I love looking at the incredible female newscasters. One looks like a young Claudia Cardinale with a long bouffant hairdo streaming past her shoulders, flawless skin, dramatic eye make up and lots of glittering jewelry. Another has a nose that screams rhinoplasty and bangs so long that she has to blink to keep then out of her eyes. Needless to say, they are all young.

We Do Culture

Another gorgeous, sunny day in Rome—our second Sunday in the city. Full of energy we leave the house for our first Official Cultural Excursion to the Via Appia Anticha, Rome’s oldest existing thoroughfare. It’s quiet and very green here, like being out in the country although we are only a 15 or 20 minute taxi ride from the city center.

The Via Appia Anticha is paved in volcanic stones, some with grooves created, I imagine, by chariots and carriages that passed here in ancient times. Tall cypresses and pine trees line the road and on the grass on either side there are literally bits and pieces of ancient funerary monuments and tombs. The road is absolutely straight and seems to go on forever. Among the fields that stretch on either side are picturesque remains of villas over 1000 years old. There are modern day villas here, too, mostly set back from the road and guarded by gorgeous but imposing gates or archways. We peer enviously down the tree-lined entranceways wondering what it must be like to live amid such beauty and antiquity. ( I am channeling Henry James here and make a silent vow to reread "A Portrait of A Lady" while in Rome.)

We’re not alone by any means but it’s not crowded—some tourists but mostly families with young children and couples slowly strolling arm and arm or picnicking by the side of the road. We walk about 4 miles but finally decide to head back to town. This could be tricky since there is no sign of a taxi. However, thanks to my overwhelming command of the language, I am able to ask someone how to get back to il centro and we successfully negotiate a bus ride and transfer to the la metropolitana (subway).

Which lands us at entirely different scene--the famous Piazza da Spagna, the Spanish Steps, mobbed as always with tourists and Italians out for a stroll on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The narrow streets in this neighborhood are lined with chic cafes full of equally chic people smoking away like there is no cancer, drinking coffee or wine and eating luscious looking pastries but somehow not getting fat.

After our mandatory stop for refreshment—in this case, a gooey four cheese pizza—we decide to walk along the river back to Trastevere. It’s late in the afternoon and the sky over the river is turning pink and gold. There’s even a tiny crescent moon. We walk past the Vatican, past the Indian vendors selling cheap religious souvenirs and the Africans hawking fake Prada bags. Closer to Trastevere the sidewalk is lined with massive chestnut trees that bend down towards the river. I imagine how beautiful it will be in the spring to take this same walk when the trees will from a shady arcade over the street.

My First Italian Lesson

How to describe Nicoletta, my Italian tutor. Let me count the ways. First of all, she is tiny, shorter than I but with big hair in various shades of blonde. She arrives at my door wearing a fuzzy fur jacket, a hat pulled down closely over her hair, zebra printed gloves with matching scarf and killer spike heels. ( I can’t imagine how she walks on these in our neighborhood’s cobblestoned streets.) She’s carrying a fake Gucci purse with a giant silver toned logo and wearing huge black sunglasses that she doesn’t take off as I lead her up the steps to the living room.

In the living room, the coat comes off as do gloves, hat, scarf but still the sunglasses stay on. She’s wearing a tight black dress showing off a very shapely figure accessorized with lots of costume jewelry—charm bracelets, bangles, long ropes of pearls, a heart-shaped rhinestone pendant and matching dangling earrings. Still the glasses stay on. Finally, she explains. She has just had her eyes done and I realize. looking at her tightly stretched skin and rather astounding lack of wrinkles, that this is not the first procedure she has undergone.

All this is explained to me in rapid Italian with frequent instant translations and accompanied by a full vocabulary of hand gestures. I am charmed and delighted to say the least.

We sit at the dining room table and begin the lesson and she takes off her glasses. Imagine trying to carry on a conversation in a foreign language with a person with two swollen, red-rimmed black eyes. Small white bandages cover the stitches on her eyelids. It’s hard not to keep staring at her face where I notice definite signs of past renovations.

Nicoletta is an excellent teacher, despite the fact that she can barely see. She sternly corrects my pronunciation and insists on my talking Italian to her. C’e molto difficile ma io provo. Halfway into our lesson, Steve comes home and she quickly puts her dark glasses on before turning to greet him. “I have some problem with my eyes,” she says coyly.

Still in my sweats

We have been here one week and today I really feel like I am living here not just visiting. Why is that? Well, first of all, there’s no frantic rush to get out in the morning to meet a guide and see SIGHTS. Instead, I leave Steve in bed and head off the gym for a not too early morning workout. Hours later, I am still in my sweats. I’ve met Steve for a mid-morning hot chocolate at our local internet café. (Still no hook up at home but that’s another story.) We’ve strolled together to a neighborhood bakery to buy lunch which we eat sitting on a bench enjoying the afternoon sun and watching the parade of people go by. Then we stop into a local salumeria where we pick up a selection of cheeses, meats, olives and other good things to “nibble on” at home, as Steve always says.

I love shopping in these little stores. One waits as the proprietor takes a long time with each customer but when it is your turn you have his or hers sole attention for as long it takes to decide and sample. You discuss your order with the large man behind the counter--he looks like he samples most of his products--but you pay his mother, the tiny old lady with the stern expression who sits at the cash register.

Even I, a non meat eater, are tempted by the pork products here--all shapes and sizes of salami and sausages di nostri produccione (not sure of the spelling but it means home-made by the proprietor), fresh bufalo mozzarella flown i giornali da Napoli, cariciofi grillate, etc., etc., etc. And, of course, wonderful crusty bread. Today we tried pizza croccante which is exactly how it sounds—a sheet of very thin bread baked brown and crackling with olive oil.

And now, I am sitting alone in our living room, watching the light fade from the sky. It will soon be time to shut the shutters, signaling the end of the day. I have a glass of red wine in front of me. Steve will soon be home. (He is out getting a shiatsu massage. Let’s hope he likes it better than yesterday’s Russian rubdown!) And we will decide how and where to spend our evening together. Va molto bene.

Steve's birthday

Yesterday was yet another gorgeous day in Rome--blue sky, brilliant sun. . .and Steve's birthday. At the last minute I decided to book him a massage since one of his favorite activities is to lay face down on a table and have a woman rub him with oil. Annuska our landlord recommends a Russian massage therapist, who I picture as a strapping blond with a slight mustache and a physique that looks capable of serious damage. The reality is Ludmilla, a painfully thin brunette with chopped off hair and a ferret like face. She speaks no English but rather some kind of pidgin Italian/Russian and she never stops talking despite my protestations of non capisco, non capisco. Somehow, Steve survives.

Dinner is more successful. I booked us (in Italian, thank you, although the hostess confirmed in English to my chagrin) at an old Roman restaurant, Piperno, across the bridge in the old Jewish ghetto. The inside of the restaurant looks like it hasn't changed since the 50's--dark green felt walls with faded paintings of fruit and vegetables in old gold frames, dark furniture and a clientele of conservatively dressed older Italian couples along with some tourists like us. The waiters in crisp white jackets perfectly match the decor.

For me, it's all about the artichokes, fried jewish style. What that means is a large artichoke cut in half horizontally, smashed down and then fried in oil so that the leaves get wonderfully crispy and the choke fantastically gooey. Moltissimo buono! Our waiter is particularly solicitous--perhaps it is my insistence on speaking Italian--and at the end of the meal when we protest we can eat no more, he brings us a few samplings of dessert to accompany our last glass of wine. And then, the best part--our ten minute walk across the bridge once again to Trastevere, the narrow streets now packed with 20 somethings out for the night, to our little house.

Drinking in the afternoon

For the last two days we’ve been roaming around Rome with John Bird, an Australian now living in Italy whose quite varied career has included a stint as houseman/major domo to Kenny Solms in LA (which is how we have connected), hairdresser to the stars with Alexandre in Paris, personal assistant to the rich and famous in New York and now owner of a concierge service specializing in gastronomical tours in Tuscany. Not surprising, the theme of our walks has been food. In the morning, we’ve sampled pizza bianca—bread topped with oil and salt, a specialty of Rome in the winter: in the afternoon, a sweet pastry made with chestnut flour and late in the day a tiny cup of coffee thick enough to eat with a spoon laced with a dollop of chocolate and whipped sugar and topped with whipped cream-- the perfect pick me up after several hours of pounding the pavements.

For every church or palazzo we visit, we stop into a salumeria where we ooh and aah over the amazing displays of cheese and pork products and fresh vegetables— pencil thin bunches of wild asparagus, sprays of red tipped artichokes, all kinds of greens--arugola, chicory, kale—bulbs of finochhio, spears of pink rhubarb, tiny sweet pachinos from Sicily and blood oranges that make the most delicious fresh squeezed juice in the morning. It’s enough to make me think about cooking …well maybe.

Highlight of our walks is lunch. While we seemingly roam around at random, John definitely has a goal in mind—where to eat. Somehow between 1:30 and 2 we find ourselves in front of a restaurant ready for lunch. The first day it’s I Mani in Pasta, a small restaurant in Trastevere specializing in home made pasta and fish. After an animated discussion with the waiter an antipasto of crudo appears—paper thin slices of raw sea bream topped with shavings of fresh truffle to be washed down with a bottle of white wine from Sicily. Two hours later we have finished another bottle of wine along with two servings of pasta con gambretti and vongole and I have discovered the true meaning of al dente pasta. Needless to say, the rest of the day and evening is spent in a stupor recovering on the sofa.
Today we are revived and are able to eat again. (I’ve also been to the gym in the morning and feel quite righteous after an hour with Aramis.) After a short stop at an enoteca for a glass of prosecco to start us going, it’s time for the afternoon’s main event--lunch. This time John nonchalantly leads us across the Ponti Sisto out of Trastevere to Casa Bleve, a wine store and restaurant in a former palazzo located in the tangle of streets around Campo di Fiori. The restaurant which is only open for lunch sits behind the store in a large colonnaded room with high ceilings set with stained glass panels. Lunch is a selection of savory antipasti—raw artichokes in oil and garlic, fresh buffalo mozzarella, zucchini blossoms stuffed with cheese, all kinds of meats, thin slices of veal napped with a sauce of creamy tuna, etc., etc., etc. Despite the fact that we have sternly allowed restricted ourselves to only one bottle a wine at lunch—a delightful red from some small vineyard in Tuscany—dinner is not on the menu for Steve and me this evening.

Back to the gym

Today feels like our first "normal" day in Rome. We woke up early to got the gym, just a 3 minute walk from our house and now are having an absolutely delicious chocolata caldo at a nearby cafe, a perfect reward for our exertions this morning but most likely cancelling out any benefits from the workout. The gym is small but clean and well equipped. My trainer's name is Aramis but it should be Adonis. He's Cuban with a perfectly sculpted body and a wide smile. I ask him to talk to me in Italian and he laughs (in a nice way) at my feeble efforts to speak. I tell him I like to work hard. We'll see....

Up on the Roof

I got up this morning at 10 with every intention of finally going to the gym and getting into a routine faintly resembling my regimen at home. But, alas, no hot water this morning. And so after several phone calls with Annuska and Beatrice, each exclaiming how this never happened and we are so very sorry, I spent the next several hours running up and down the three flights of stairs to let in Lorenzo and Roberto so they can find and solve la problema. All this happening while Steve was in total coma, having stayed up until 4 in the morning watching the Super Bowl.

The plus side was time spent on the roof. There is a whole other world on the roofs of houses in this section of Trastevere. Elaborate plantings, separate structures, shaded gazebos along with the ubiquitous satellite dish. Our roof has a kitchen and ample space to eat al fresco. Lovely.

"The Security"

My neighborhood, Trastevere, is avillage of twisting, narrow, cobblestoned streets lined by old houses with heavy doors and tall shuttered windows. The walls of the houses looked rubbed with age and on their lower levels they are covered with a continuous scrawl if multicolored, multilingual graffitti. There's lots of litter and trash bags piled at vacant corners. The trash is supposed to be picked up outside of each house but the system doesn't always work, Annuska explains. Beatrice shrugs and whispers to leave it at the corner like everyone else

Both Annuska and Beatrice are very keen on "the security." The back of the house faces a courtyard and those windows along it have elaborate locks. We are solemnly charged to close all the shutters when we leave and to double lock the door at night and to make sure the door to the roof deck is barred and locked. Violent crime isn't a problem but robbery as a long time resident explains. "Italy is a nation of thieves," she says. "Watch out for pickpockets."

Instead of feeling paranoid I feel perfectly safe. There' something comforting about being ina place so old abd so beautiful. Living somewhere that has existed and survived for so long and where the garden across the street has orange and lemon trees full of fruit in early February.

Vicolo del Cedro 12

Here we are sitting in our small living room listening to Mozart and reading the papers on Saturday afternoon. The shutters are open to the street and we can hear cars, pedestrians and a steady stream of Italian, vey little of which I can understand. (But I am trying and have even made myself understood.)

The house is charming and eccentric and just perfect for the two of us. A tiny entrance hall on the first floor and then up a winding staircase to the living room and a separate dining room. There's also a miniscule but fully equipped kitchen in which very little cooking will be done outside of breakfast. Up another flight to our bedroom and then up yet another to the fourth floor for the second bedroom. Halfway up again is a separate small study or sanctuary inside of which are perilously narrow iron stairs to the roof deck overlooking Trastevere.

Our landlords are an interesting mother daughter combination. Annuska is the mother, a translator of Scandinavian literature into Italian. (Think Pippi Longstocking or Ibsen.) Her daughter is Beatrice, an actress and singer as she tells me along with a lot of other random information about her health, her mysterious parentage,her memory loss(!), etc., etc., etc. Serious TMI. We also meet Roberto, their neighbor and sort of jack of all trades handyman who helps schlep our obscenely heavy suitcases up the steep and narrow stairs. Last but not at all least we meet Joseph, the local techie who is trying to install an internet connection but I am so sorry but we must wait for Telecom to come and that will be a week or 10 ten days but who knows this is Italy and what can we do. Which means so much for Skype until further notice. (Joseph, by the way, is a jew from Libya with a sister in Paris and a brother in New Jersey and parents in Israel.)

While Steve sleeps of course mother and daughter take me on a brief tour of the immediate neighborhood which I vaguely remember in my jet lagged state. That night Steve and I find our way to a nearby wine bar where everyone looks like Liz and her friends. Its the Italian version of Happy Hour but instead of greasy eggrolls and meatballs there's a delicious spread of cold antipasti out on the bar. After two glasses of wine we stumble home, happy but overwhelmed, to Vicolo del Cedro 12.