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!
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
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!
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!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
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.
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.
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. . .
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. . .
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 11, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Friday, February 8, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
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....
Monday, February 4, 2008
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 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.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
"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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
