Inking Italy

Quick: What Are All the Italians Looking At?

I'm often asked if Romans, or people who live in Rome, ever stop seeing, or appreciating, the incredible ruins and sights around them.

Here's something I saw today that might go -- partway -- toward answering that question.

Exhibit A: A crowd gathered in Rome. I'd say it's 90-100 percent Italian.

Exhibit B: What they're looking at. (Can't tell? It's one of those street artists who use stencils and spray paint to make pretty cheesy-looking scenes, usually involving some kind of sunset, really quickly. If I weren't feeling particularly expansive today, I'd probably have quotes around the word artists).

Now, I'll admit that these artists can be pretty mesmerizing. There's something about the stencils, the speed... and, let's be honest, probably about the paint fumes, too.

But is it more mesmerizing than the other sights that you could see from the very same spot?

So: Let's be honest. The Italians here had probably seen the forum and Colosseum a million times. That neat trick with the stencils, though, that's something new. (Well, newer than 2,000 years old).

Which, of course, raises an interesting point. No matter how beautiful, old, and important, those sights you see every day do, at least sometimes, lose out in the fight for your attention. Even against the most gimmicky of distractions.

Now That's What I Call Takeout

Pictured: Two pizzas from Li Rioni, two glasses of Nero d'Avola, and the knee of my roommate, who's totally wondering why we haven't dived into our feast yet. Did I say I live a 2 minutes' walk from where all of this came from?

Ah, Rome.

Scenes from a Roman Bus

I.

At the Largo Argentina bus stop. A crowd, as usual, spilling off the sidewalk. The buses are taking longer than usual. Maybe because it's Friday.

The number 60 pulls up, slows, and then starts to take off, never opening its doors. An Italian woman whacks the door with her large shopping bag. "Oh!" she yells, the half grunt, half exclamation that's the Romans' more-gravelly version of an American "Hey!" The bus accelerates. Her bag drops to the street. "Ma dai, che stronzo!" she yells after the driver. He doesn't stop.

There's a man in an ATAC uniform, for Rome's public transport system, waiting at the bus stop with us. She turns to him. What the hell, she asks, why didn't the bus stop? He shrugs and barely flicks his eyes in her direction. What do you want me to do about it? he says. The number 87 pulls up. He gets on.

II.

I get on the 87, too. I pull a euro coin out of my pocket and put it in the ticket machine. It rolls out. I put it in again. It's spat out once more. A young man next to me nods at it: "Fuori servizio," he says. Ah. It's out of service. Casting a nervous glance at the ATAC official, riding the bus with me, I back, ticketless, away from the machine. The official remains rooted to his spot at the railing.

III.

Two minutes later, the number 87 comes to a halt before Via dei Fori Imperiali. Polizia metropolitana cluster in their blue uniforms, waving the traffic away. The bus driver rolls down the window, exchanges words with the police. Instead of heading down the street, it starts a laborious, rocking revolution around the Piazza Venezia green. "Non va al Colosseo?" asks the woman in front of me, who's certainly not going to the Colosseum to take pictures, but to get on one of the only metros in Rome's center to continue her journey. "No, signora, mi dispiace," the driver says. The same young man at the ticket machine pokes his head toward the driver. "Va a via Labicana?" "Non so." The driver doesn't know.

Via dei Fori Imperiali is quiet, the sidewalks busy. Military helicopters circle overhead. With a dozen others, I get off the bus at Piazza Venezia and start my 25-minute walk home.

Some Darn Loud Birds

Starlings in flight are beautiful. They swoop, dive and dance, as choreographed as a school of fish, but with more elegance. Every night in the fall, they give a free show over the River Tiber in Rome. And then, mysteriously, vanish, only to be seen, again, the following October.

(I once even saw them making a fish symbol over St. Peter's. I can't remember if I saw it as an omen or not, but I must have been mesmerized, because although I thought to take a snap, I was too entranced to realize I should probably get the basilica into the frame with the fish to prove that it really had happened. But look, here's my almost-proof!).

Still, as beautiful as I knew starlings were -- and as annoying for Rome residents, particularly those in Trastevere, who have to start their commutes with ten minutes of scraping the elegant birds' less-than-elegant refuse from the hoods of their cars -- I never realized they were so darn loud.

Until, walking in Campo Marzio the other night, I heard what sounded like a loud rushing noise. Loud enough to be heard over the city traffic and strolling Italians. It sounded like a waterfall...in the city center. As I got to the end of the street, the noise was even louder. I looked up. Before me stood one, big, lonesome tree -- filled with what must have been hundreds of small, not-so-lonesome starlings. They were almost impossible to see, but not to hear. I thought about making like a character in The Birds and running for it, but I took this video instead.

Turn the volume up even louder to get a sense of what it was really like, and see if you can even make out the tiny little things rustling around in the branches.

 

One Moment, Three Reasons to Love Rome

A short walk around Rome this evening reminded me of why I still feel so lucky to live here. Below, three reasons that hit me at the same time:

The fact that piazzas as beautiful as this one can still be so empty, regardless of all the jabber-jawing about how inundated by tourists Rome is. (And yes, this looks quite similar in the summer, too). This one is Piazza Farnese, but don't tell anybody.

Okay, I know it might not look like much, but this castagnaccio (a heavy cake made of chestnut flour) is deceptively delicious. Like most other Italian desserts, not too sweet, but filling and just nutty enough. I bought this at Antico Forno, the bakery on Campo dei Fiori, as a little winter's-arrival treat.

Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, Rome's only Gothic church. It boasts the body of St. Catherine of Siena, a (supposed) Michelangelo sculpture, the tomb of Fra Angelico, and some gorgeous frescoes by Filippino Lippi, but I also just love the view as soon as you walk in. So different from everything else in Rome.

So: Sitting on that piazza, eating a castagnaccio, and contemplating my stroll over to see Santa Maria Sopra Minerva -- one moment, three reasons why I feel lucky to live in Rome. As frustrating as it can sometimes be.

 

 

The First Taste of Fig

A shameful admission: Although figs have been in season since June, I hadn't tasted one until today. At least not a fig in anything other than the powdery, slightly-cardboard-tasting Fig Newton variety. 

It was time to remedy this.

Since it's two days before ferragosto officially begins, most of the food vendors near me, including my favorite little fruit stand, are closed. So when I opened my fridge to see its fairly-bare shelves, I knew I was headed to my tiny neighborhood market that makes up for in variety what it boasts in opening times and friendliness. It helps that it's right across the street.

Once there, as usual, I realized I wanted not just bread, but a big bottle of water. Oh, and maybe some fruit. I picked out plums. Then I saw the figs. Okay, those too.

The owner -- who recognizes me by now and seems pretty thrilled to have an American living so nearby -- packed them up for me, extolling their glories as he wrapped them in paper. "Just wash them off and you can eat them just like this," he told me in Italian. "Very nice snack. Very delicious. You sure you don't want more? Positive?"

Back home, I dutifully washed one of the (pretty ripe-looking) figs, dried it off, and took a bite.

Yum. Funky texture, delicate taste, no annoying pits or seeds. Way better than a Fig Newton. (Although I think that if Fig Newton brought this old-school mascot back, it might give the boring, unbranded fresh fig a run for its money. I mean, how can you not love a cartoon that greets you with "Hi, I'm Big Fig!"?)

I'm now plotting the rest of my afternoon around when I can have a second, and third, one of these snack-sized fruits.

(For the record: Yes, I do know what "fig" is an euphemism for. That joke is 500 years old. Literally. And no, I haven't suddenly discovered something about myself here in Italy. I'm talking about the honest-to-god fruit version. Really). 

A Motorino Moment

7pm. I'm walking down Via Giovanni Lanza, the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore at my back, the sun starting to dip the 8-story palazzos around me into a golden glow. It should be rush hour on a Monday, but it's ferragosto and the city is emptying as fast as water from one of Rome's nasone. The road is quiet; few cars pass.

So I'm surprised when I hear a "thrum, thrum, THRUM!" -- the angry, noisy spitting of a scooter attempting to start, a sound I know all too well. A bike jerks down the road next to me, its owner kicking hard, trying to lasso the bike's speed from the hill into a full start. He's wearing a black business suit, shiny leather shoes, and a scuffed-up, stickered helmet.

Finally, the motorino starts. The biker-businessman speeds away, his commute assured, headed for home.