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Roman Holiday.
Walking around Rome I had the urge to read a Dan Brown novel. Spending the weekend immersed in the high intrigue of well-researched but loosely hypothesized conspiracy theories, the streets would come alive with curiosity. With no DaVinci Code or Angels and Demons at arm's length, I continued to convince myself that I made the right decision to celebrate my 32nd birthday in the Eternal City. With uncertainty to what my future holds, I certainly couldn't go wrong with a Papal blessing before returning to my life in Sicily. But when I arrived at St. Peter's square on Sunday morning, six-foot television screens, in six languages, informed me and the other travelers that the Pope would be broadcasting live via satellite from his vacation home off the coast of Tuscany. I guess God gave him a break from the busloads of tourists who sweat the sun in order to be abolished of their past misdoings, and in my case, future misgivings. Dejected, I enter the cathedral and hope for enlightenment in the art and architecture. Upon entering I am immediately drawn to the crowd clapping camera shutters closed on Michelangelo's Pieta. During the short walk to the statue, the shrill of the processional bell from an over-enthusiastic alter boy's wrist called the churchgoers to the shrine under the throne dedicated to Saint Peter. The crowd disperses and I attend to my enlightenment. The Pieta, Michelangelo's depiction of a mother's grief at the loss of her son, transcends religion with sheer humanity. I have the urge to get close to this monument, place my hand on the marble and allow the emotional energy penetrate my marrow. But I can't. The sculpture is a distance behind floor to ceiling glass, thanks to a dissident who tried to deface the work a decade or two ago. It was the second such incident. The first was four hundred years ago when Michelangelo himself, frustrated at the rumors that he wasn't the artist, entered the church after hours and carved his name in a fold beneath the limp arm of Jesus. I turn to the alter, walk slowly amongst the crowd, apply the sign of the cross to my head and heart and settle into the morning missive read by a selection of priests robed in red, white and green with their black uniforms showing at the neck and wrist during ceremonial gestures of faith. My thoughts skipped spiritual reflection and focused on my weekend spent. Arriving on Friday, I catered to my needs of coffee at Sant Eustach, a deep, rich blend of motor oil. One strong shot consumed in one gulp and you are ready to traverse the city. Piazza Navona never fails to entertain. I was immediately reminded of a night when three friends, first time in Italy, smoked cigars after midnight in this same spot in December of 1996. We had just finished dinner with a childhood friend who was studying at the American Academy for Priests in Rome. He led us through a menu of gluttoness proportions at a local restaurant frequented by his colleagues in canon; he presented us with three Cubans and pointed us on our way. My weekend would be short of all those past experiences, but my memory guided me to Piazza Minerva and Bernini's elephant - obelisk pointing to fading blue skies. It was seven o'clock by the setting sun and it was time for an aperitivo on the roof of the hotel on the piazza. Two hours passed and three drinks went down smooth. I sketched the dome of the Pantheon in the distance and my phone rang. I was summoned by a friend and his colleague from work, a French girl interning at the Law firm. We adjourned at a restaurant in the not too distant and fed ourselves on pasta dishes. The French girl insisted that we swallow each forkful with white wine. The native and I looked at each other, shrugged, bewildered at the irregular combination, and followed her path to the bottom of the bottle. The French are arrogant about many things, but we must trust them when it comes to matters of the stomach. We left the restaurant and topped our dinner with dancing at a small bar operated by a Swedish model. The crowd was sleek and chic. Photography books and fashion magazines lined the walls as if the place was that of a boutique bookseller. The bartenders charged large sums for a cup of their cocktails, and the limp wrist amounts of alcohol in each glass kept you coming back for more when the music dipped between songs. The second French lesson in gastronomy was the drink order. Vodka and apple juice. At first mention, I thought of the fiery sting of Calvados, but the drink went down icy smooth and I thought no better summer sipper on a steamy night in a far away fashionable land. The night ended at three. I stumbled back to my bed in a hotel that claims Goethe and Byron rested their head and where they were inspired to pen stories and poems still studied today by the countless literature majors in the Western World. Saturday's sun came quickly through my window and I ventured out. Sweat followed my walk to the Spanish Steps and Via Veneto. No traces of Peck and Hepburn, Mastroianni or Ekberg or the lively images of countless Fellini films. I stopped for a glass of white wine and waited for another call from an old friend vacationing in Tuscany. The family's last two days would be in Rome and we met at my hotel in the Piazza of the Pantheon. Husband, wife, three kids and me, we consulted our maps and tried in earnest to find a small restaurant recommended by their friends who were loaning them an apartment for the weekend. A walk past Piazza Umberto and in the shadow of Bernini's bridge of angels, the restaurant remains on a quiet cul-de-sac where the restless kids could run around under the watchful eye of the residents peering through wood planked shutters. We ordered pasta and chicken and meatballs for the kids. We ate and drank ceramic pitchers of white and red wine from the house stash in a cask in front of the kitchen. At three dollars per half pitcher, the wine was a wonderful part of the meal similar to the crusty bread we used to soak up the remains of sauce on our plates. We ended the dinner with the three kids, eyes half dreaming of the lions and tigers that would compete against gladiators in the Coliseum - the main attraction for their Sunday spent in Rome. My Sunday ended with a flight back to Sicily. Five weeks after my initial arrival, I noticed the Aeolian Islands, seven in all - Vulcanu and Stromboli, active volcanoes that make up two of the islands; Lipari that lies in the controlled domain of Malavasia, the region that makes the wonderfully refreshing and sweet dessert wine, Passito. The plane banked with a fly by of Mt. Etna, and cruised toward the airport near the city center. These sights left the tourists gleaming and chattering, but I felt connected to this place. My weekend in Rome enlightened me to this fact, I was coming home. Went Out For a Walk
Post 7 - July'05 Back to home...
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