Italy/France journal
Monday, May 15: Roma
This is how perky we look after about 18 hours straight of sleepless traveling.
We were picked up at the airport by a silent driver and delivered to an old building on Via Montorno, a block from Campo dei Fiori.
We entered a tall, arched double wooden door right on the tiny street and found ourselves in a spacious courtyard.
A coffin-sized elevator hauled us and our bags up to be met at our little apartment on the third floor by Diego, who was brisk with dazed and confused tourists. He told us where things were, took our deposit, and left. It was 7 p.m. Roma time.
We nearly passed out at that point, but instead walked down the narrow, winding stairs to the street and the local market a couple of blocks away, The street is actually a narrow alley lined with old 3 and 4 story buildings, intersecting with other narrow alleys that wind this way and that. We got little prepared tubs of very tasty rigatoni ala amatriciana and spinachi to take back to our aerie, along with some wine which we drank from tiny glasses.
The bed is in a small room with a ceiling only fit for troglodytes; Jerry has to crouch to enter, and even I have to duck. The bed fills most of the space and sadly, isn’t that comfortable. However, a roof window showed us the sky. The lumps did not stop us from sleeping.
Tuesday, May 16
We woke to the clang of church bells and some birds flying over whose calls sound like babies crying.
After breakfast, we walked a block to Camp de Fiori, formerly a flower market. There are lots of touristy stalls there, but also many fruit and vegetable stalls, a salumeria on one side of the campo, a famous Forno on the other, and a cheese stall nearby, as well as flowers. We wandered around, eventually buying some strawberries and a jar of mushroom spread.
After the Campo we continued stocking up at the Coop market, small but well-packed with items. We ate a local lunch of prosciutto and cheese sandwiches with the mushroom spread, and then went out to reset our clocks with plenty of sunshine.
We walked to the Forum through the tiny streets, which are nevertheless full of cars and motorcycles and scooters, as well as thronged with pedestrians.
Our walk took us past Largo de Torre Argentina, a dig in progress conveniently located next to the busy Corso Vittorio Emanuele II thoroughfare.
We circumnavigated the Colosseum and then, because of the lines, headed for the Forum, which didn’t seem that crowded.
We walked the Via Sacra, the sacred way trod by returning Caesars, triumphantly leading their victorious legions and parading a passel of slaves and a lot of booty. The Forum is a surprisingly small and cozy space for the center of a great civilization.
Above the rubble, the Palantine Hill had its own elegant residential rubble, where wealthy and powerful people used to live. Remains of the temple of the vestal virgins showed the outlines of their small, nun-like cells. Those girls of noble birth chosen for the job started work around 10 years old, and could retire in their late 30s with a dowry, unless they had made the mistake of becoming a non-virgin, which rated them dishonor, disgrace, and being buried alive.
Temples in relatively good shape in the fourth century, such as the Temple of Romulus whose original bronze doors are shown above, were turned into churches; the demise of other buildings was hastened by scavenging for their nicely shaped building stones. Evidently even the invading barbarian hordes would cart off stones along with other booty.
Due to his unpopularity at time of cremation, Julius Caesar’s grave is a rather undistinguished heap of dirt in a partially reconstructed stone hut. Romans still put flowers on it.
Remains of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, although sparse, are pretty tall.
Jerr at the arch of Titus.
Jerr with Julius Caesar.
It grew hotter and the Forum began to fill up, so we started walking back. The heaps of rubble were very interesting, but the amazing thing is how long people have been building a city there, like seeing the pyramids or the Cahokia Mounds.
We meant to retrace our steps, but got very lost indeed, and wandered the streets for quite a while. Jerr finally found the right route, after remarking that he’d wondered if we would be tired and cranky what with the jet lag and everything.
After cooling down, guzzling water, and resting, we were ready to head out to dinner at Osteria dei Capellari, half a block to the right on the narrow street that intersects with our narrow street. Capellari translates to hatmaker, and the restaurant cleverly has made its pendant lights from black fedoras.
We had checked their menu the day before on our way to the market and were amazed at how low the prices seemed. I wanted to try the carcifone fritta del Guidica, a traditional Roman Jewish dish using their amazing artichokes.
We had a lovely dinner—a huge antipasto platter including not just the artichoke I wanted to try, but also panzanella, fresh buffalo mozzerella, salad, and a large bowl of steamed mussels—all delicious. We split a plate of tonarello cacio e pepe (thick spaghetti with cheese and pepper). Bill for all that food and two glasses of wine: €44.
Wednesday, May 17
In the morning, we walked around the market at Campo dei Fiori and got sandwiches for lunch at the Forno made with their pizza bianca as the bread—delicious!
After lunch, we set out to visit Piazza Navona, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, and the Spanish Steps. Managed two of four. We took a wrong turn on the way to Piazza Navona, which is actually a five-minute walk from our place, but which we couldn’t find no matter how many narrow, picturesque streets we wandered down. In the process, we did find the Pantheon.
Two thousand years ago, Romans figured out how to build this perfectly symmetrical domed building with no internal supports out of formed concrete. It’s a church now, with priestly types manning the altars of various saints that replaced Roman-era statues of all the gods, led by Jupiter. Now of course Jesus has Jupiter’s spot across from the entrance.
It was crowded (hence the line; only the carrying capacity is allowed in at any one time to avoid the kind of scrum we encountered at the Vatican the next day). Most of the outside is missing its original marble cladding, rumored to have been carried off by marauding visigoths. This makes it possible to see the brick arches built into the 20-foot thick concrete walls for extra support. The dome, also concrete, narrows to 5 feet thick at the top, poured in place using wooden forms in hollow squares. It impressed and inspired Renaissance architects such as Brunelleschi, who designed Florence’s Duomo, as well as Michelangelo, who was pressed into service by Pope Julian II to redesign St. Peter’s Basilica.
On we went aiming for the Trevi Fountain. I wanted to look in at La Maddelena on the way, but we couldn’t find that, and after wandering around some more, ended up at the main drag a couple of blocks from our apartment. A more intensive study of the map got us to the elusive Piazza Navona in 5 minutes. We admired the fountains, especially Bernini’s boffo Rivers of the World.
We wandered the area, noticing that the Italian Senate building was bristling with commando-style caribinari, who in turn bristled with automatic weapons.
When we walked back through Piazza Navona, the musicians that had been setting up on our way through before were in full swing. In the late afternoon, every café you walk past has a guy (or gal) out front inciting you to enter: “Hello. Have a drink?” (Somehow they peg us as American with a single glance.) So we sat at one within easy listening distance. Jerr had a birra, I had an apperitivo (Aperol and prosecco).
Dinner at home and a lovely evening with Jerr playing guitar on the little terrace outside the living room.
We’re on the top floor of our building, but others are higher. I particularly like that little room stacked up at the apex of the building in the distance.
Thursday, May 18
Up at 5 am to make it to our bus stop by 7, to get to the Piazza Risorgimento by 7:30 to meet our Vatican tour group. We had booked a Walks of Italy skip-the-line tour with early entrance to the Sistine Chapel. In the large crowd milling around the piazza for early tours, we found our guide, Francesca.
She led us along the Vatican wall to the Museums entrance where we—go figure—stood in line while other people (mostly well-dressed) went on in. Francesca explained that they were generous donors to the Vatican and got all kinds of perks.
Eventually we, along with what seemed like hordes of other early line-skippers, were admitted, given our earphones and transmitters, and set off through the Museums. So many rooms, so much to see. It was populated, but not really crowded, and no trouble getting to see things, like the amazing maps painted in the 1500s. Every inch of wall is decorated, as is every inch of ceiling; my neck complained that night.
The hall of maps (above) lines the walls with exquisite frescos by Ignazio Danti, done in the 16th century. One of many beautiful ceiling ornaments (below).
The popes had the power and money to command premium artists to work for them, and Julius II was especially acquisitive when it came to fine art. He badgered Michelangelo unmercifully about the Sistine Chapel, and the results are astounding to see in person. Our guide explained that Michelangelo’s depiction of Jesus without a beard and flowing hair was a radical departure, and evidently the total nakedness of the guys and some of the women was shocking; one of his students had to go around painting little scarves over the delicate bits. We spent time in the chapel absorbing the magnificence (more neck pain!) but were not allowed to take pictures.
We wended through a courtyard of beautiful statuary, especially the Laocoon and the Apollo Belvedere. By this time, the museums were filling up.
We forged a path through the Raphael rooms, admiring his “School of Athens” painting of Greek philosophers, some of whom bore the faces of his patrons and contemporaries. Michelangelo is down (literally) in front, leaning on a box.
On our way to the Basilica, we went through the Sistine Chapel again. But a couple of hours made a big difference in the crowd. It was hard to get from one side to the other, and we had to fight our way into St. Peter’s.
St. Peter’s is enormous. I had to admire the Pieta from a distance even greater than that provided by its bullet-proof glass protection, installed after a madman’s attack on it some years ago.
Like Disneyland, which the Vatican resembles if everything in Disneyland was about God and art, the powers that be need to offer a two-day ticket. Impossible to do it in one day, and probably not in two. Also like Disneyland, souvenir shops are dotted all the way through every corridor, full of holy items you can take home, like (I suppose) a Pope key chain. Il Papa did not put in an appearance.
We staggered out into the blinding sun and heat of St. Peter’s Square (actually it’s round, if that matters), through the sea of humanity that filled it, and into the nearby streets, where we took the 2nd trattoria to buttonhole us and had pizza and salad for lunch (beer for Jerr, prosecco for me—getting into this noon drinking). The salads are all delicious, with fresh, crunchy vegetables. You are given cruets of oil and vinegar to compound your own dressing.
Made it back to our bus, got back home, and rested our feet. By 5:30, we were ready for some hydration of a different kind, and headed to our Campo for the apperitivo thing. While enjoying our drinks and the nearby guitarist, we noticed an ad for Jeremy’s place of employment on a nearby wall.
The campo is a fun scene, as are the piazzas, the piazzales, and even the sidewalks. There are always musicians, and pigeons eating the example pizzas and appetizers the restaurants set out in front, and clergy walking by in droves, and young skimpily clad women with tight-jeaned young men smoking like chimneys. Fun to observe, though I am curious about the lung cancer rate in Italy. If it’s not sky-high, maybe it’s prevented by drinking enough wine and walking your legs off.
Needing milk (nothing like a daily trip to the market), we walked a couple of blocks to the Coop, only to see a humble looking trattoria next door with a name nearly bigger than it was: Di Giacomo Trattoria la Moretta. Though it meant the Coop would close before we were finished, we got an outside table (8 pm, early by Italian standards), and had a good meal: tagliarini with peas, prosciutto, and mushrooms for me, and chicken Roma style for Jerr, with a plate of spinachi and half a carafe of the house wine: €35. The pasta was delicious, and Jerr’s chicken, a Roman specialty, was quite savory (I noticed every bite was eaten). Can’t beat the prices here. We went home and tried to stay awake for the sake of our digestion (something Italians are very concerned about; they invented bitters to help with digestive issues), but ended up snoring by 11.
Friday, May 19
Our last full day in Rome. Finally managed to sleep through the lumps and street noise, including people having arguments on the narrow street below at 1 am and then roaring off on motorcycles. Had cream-filled croissants from the Forno—so good, although a bit sweeter than I like.
We successfully used the phone to navigate to the Trevi fountain. I did toss in a dime, or whatever the 10-cent coin is.
Next we conquered the Spanish Steps.
To celebrate actually reaching our goal for a change, we had gelato (finally!). Delicious. Cool. Refreshing. We wandered around a bit (on purpose this time).
Went home and ate what was left in our fridge for lunch. I did some laundry in preparation for traveling the next day. A weird little washer lives in the kitchen, about the size of a dorm refrigerator. Had to wash 4, maybe 5 loads, simply because it doesn’t wash much at once. The clothes were then draped on hangers around the room to dry.
We went out and walked down our narrow streets, taking in the many little shops at street level in the tall buildings, some of them restaurants or bakeries or bars, some of them artisan workshops (woodcarver across the street, cabinet maker a little further on, goldsmith here, tailor there).
Eventually we found ourselves at the Hostaria Farnese, a block off our campo on Piazza Farnese, location of the Palazzo Farnese, currently home to the French embassy. We got a table outside. I had spaghetti carbonara, Jerr got veal with mushrooms in a wine sauce, and we shared a plate of asparagus. The carbonara was really golden and really delicious. Jerr asked why it was so different from mine (wince!) and my only guess was egg yolks instead of whole eggs, and maybe the use of guanciale instead of pancetta (though all the menus here just say bacon in the English translation that we are given). More research of an eating sort will be needed to figure this out. The asparagus had wonderful flavor and was drenched in butter, with a pale crown of finely grated parmesan.
Despite being full, we shared tiramisu, also excellent.
We strolled through the square and through the streets, admiring the narrow glimpses into building courtyards, some of them most beautifully ornamented.
Up to now, we’d experienced Rome with blue skies and hot weather. But the mother of all thunderstorms moved in late Friday/early Saturday, with the Italian version of ninepins being played right above our heads—thunder, lightning, torrential downpour, really loud as we were directly under the tiled roof, continuing for a couple of hours. It poured again while we got ready to leave. We had our stuff out in the little hall, waiting for the extremely slow elevator, when we heard someone running up our winding staircase—the first besides ourselves that we had seen or heard. All three floors, huffing a bit but not even stopping! A buxom young woman wearing a motorcycle helmet burst out of the stairwell, lugging a large bag of linens. She greeted us warmly, clearly associated with the apartment in some way, and we told her about the leak I had discovered in the corner after the storm. She shrugged that off. “Old, old building, she said disparagingly. “Good location, very good, but horrible old building.” Okaay.
We trudged through the rain, trundling suitcases, barely protected by the plastic ponchos I had scored in Chicago at Liz’s (also rainy) graduation, till we reached the taxi stand. My purse, the bag with our papers, and our shoes were drenched in minutes. Our driver took us, soggy and shivering, at breakneck speed to the Termini train station.
We had planned to store our luggage and walk to the Baths of Dioclecian, and maybe even find a place for lunch, since we didn’t have to be in Florence until 3. However, the rain put a damper on that plan. Eventually we figured out how to use the ticket machine, then just stood around, being paranoid about the pickpockets that supposedly hung out in Termini. Either Roman pickpocketing isn’t as bad as people say, or all the thieves were having the week off. Soon we were on the train to Florence.
Next up, Firenze!