Life and Travel
in Rome, Italy
by Diana
Serbe
WHEN IN ROME...
"Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans
of the heart must turn to thee," exhorted Byron in one of his
rather frequent moods of euphoria. Since I was similarly inclined
to romantic exhortation, Byron's words sprang to my lips when I learned
of the opportunity to travel to Rome where my family and I would live.
I turned to the city of the soul, though I was not exactly an orphan.
I arrived in Rome with one husband, two small babies, three words
of Italian, four steamer trunks, a large pile of books, and a universe
of plans.
The books? Cookbooks, guidebooks,
histories of Rome, volumes of poetry. The plans? Oh, but I was young:
I planned to conquer the Italian culture, the language, and the cuisine.
I intended to know the Sistine Chapel well enough to paint it myself.
I had my Roman sojourn organized, mapped and charted.
Or so I thought. But Rome is
a city that alters perceptions. After centuries of would-be conquerors,
from Celt to Carthaginian, Visigoth to Vandal; after Renaissance builders,
Popes and pilgrims, Rome had learned to live with veni-vidi-vici.
The city was waiting for me.
*
Before our arrival, friends had
written to say that they had found us an apartment in the Centro Storico,
the old section. They hoped that would be acceptable, they had stated,
considering that Americans seemed to prefer modern surroundings. With
casual neglect, they never bothered to mention that the apartment
was actually the top floor of an 18th century palazzo situated in
a small square so close to the Piazza Navona that we would call our
famous neighbor the back yard. Nor did they bother to mention that
I would be able to lie in bed and gaze on a moonlit bell tower that
bore a large clock and a mosaic of Madonna and Child by Borromini.
The apartment itself was carelessly
large, a heartwarming display of inefficient use of space. In the
18th century, it would have been the private apartment of one member
of a royal family. In the 20th century it had met with division, but
nonetheless each room was twice the size of our American apartment.
We oohed and aahed when we realized that instead of windows, there
was a series of French doors opening onto Juliet style balconies.
Still oohing and aahing, we knelt to touch the terrazzo floors, buffed
by time to a glowing patina. It took us weeks to accept that we were
home, not on a guided tour.
With what I considered great
foresight, I had crammed my steamer trunks with enough memorabilia
to make a rented apartment into a home for my children. Though I began
unpacking with great alacrity, it was a job I never finished. Lured
by the sun outside, I would pause, go to a balcony and watch the light.
Rome is lit by a kaleidoscope
of sunbeams that have broken free of the parent sun. They skip in
and out of the corners of small piazze, then disappear into shadowy
archways only to be rediscovered resting in mossy voluptuousness on
the edges of earth-toned buildings. "Follow," they seemed
to say. "Forget the guidebooks and the steamer trunks. 'When
in Rome, do as the Romans do.' Break free."
Rome was seducing me, but my
life was bound by the dictates of small children. I followed a routine,
most of which centered on food. I located a supermarket as I thought
any proper American would do. I found a bread store where the owner
would surreptitiously hand my two-year old a piece of pizza bianca
despite my admonitions to the contrary. I discovered a wine merchant
who taught me to bring an empty bottle to have it filled with Frascati
from barrels delivered by local wine growers. I daily wheeled the
children for gelato at Tre Scalini in Piazza Navona.
*
Mine was not the large stage
of tourist Rome, but in the narrow winding streets I heard the muffled
voice of the past meld with the present as the ever vociferous Romans
went about their daily lives. I still hear the sounds of the street,
the metal shop doors being rolled up, the endless chatter of women
as they shopped. Guidebooks were useless here. I began to realize
that the noisy spontaneity of the Romans was the spark of the city.
'When in Rome, do as the Romans
do.' The phrase reverberated in my mind. I wanted to be like the Romans,
for they had learned the lesson of the sunbeams and had broken free.
I stopped carrying a guidebook. I stopped studying Italian grammatical
construction and began to speak, slaughtering the language wherever
I went. I started doing as they did, imitating those Romans that I
encountered on a regular basis.
The first thing I did was to
learn a few arias from Puccini, an action inspired by the porter of
our building. The porter, who did no discernible work whatsoever,
was always in the courtyard. The sight of me wheeling my babies provoked
him to song. Unconcerned that his was a voice of hammered tin, he'd
throw his arms open and abandon himself to Puccini. Secretly I copied
him, though I could only abandon myself to high C when in the shower.
In the street I continued to sing sotto voce. I envied his freedom.
I wanted to be like him. Even more, I wanted to be like the stranger
known to my husband and me as Nostra Dama della Cappa -our Lady of
the Cape.
We had discovered a local trattoria,
a simple place of clumsy furniture and stark decor that served the
very best, the very largest porcini mushrooms, fresh from the country
and grilled with a reckless amount of garlic. We became regular customers,
shyly nodding to the owners and to other regular customers as we quietly
took our seats. Then Nostra Dama would arrive.
Garbed in a fur lined cape, she
would stand poised in the doorway, and shout "Buona sera,"
loud enough to command everyone's attention. Then, in one self-dramatizing
gesture, she would throw her arms open to reveal the luxury on the
inside of her cape. The owners of the restaurant would rush to welcome
her with kisses and bows. The other customers would nod as she was
escorted to her table. She would nod back, a queen acknowledging her
faithful public.
I laughed at her in those early
days. But I was laughing from envy. I wanted to be her though I didn't
know why. I hadn't lived in Rome long enough.
*
Slowly we settled in. And so did
that dreadful thing known as reality. Despite romantic exhortations,
I was tired.
First there was the reality of
the bell tower, that moonlit creation of Borromini. Although the clock
didn't function, the bells, oh those steadfast bells, most certainly
did, ringing every fifteen minutes, but only between midnight and
six A.M. Then they chimed, tolled, pealed, gonged, once I even heard
them tintinnabulate, and always in disregard for the exact hour. I
asked who rang the bells, but no-one seemed to know. I was convinced
that Quasimodo had escaped Notre Dame and taken refuge in our small
Italian church. Sleepless nights became the norm.
I was sleepy and I was harried.
I had a husband who traveled regularly and two small children. The
oldest child, a boy we had nicknamed Genghis, demanded his afternoon
passegiata to "Ona, Ona," his toddler way of saying Piazza
Navona. Inspired by wayward sunbeams, my son did as the Romans did
by breaking free, and that which he most frequently broke free of
was his mother. Arms open, hair blowing, he ran into the kaleidoscope
of sun specks finding adventure in the spray of Bernini's Fontana
dei Fiume.
His sister, my eight-month old,
watched from her carriage, yearning to join him. Undaunted by the
pesky reality that she hadn't yet learned to walk, she too attempted
freedom and that which she wanted to be free of was her carriage.
Showing advance interest in mountain climbing, she squirmed, shoved,
pushed, and dangled, earning her the nickname Avalanche.
This situation was manageable
until my son discovered that there was a church in the Piazza Navona,
the Chiesa da Sant'Agnese. At the age of two, it was not piety that
drew him to the depths of the church. Instead, he had discovered another
source of Roman light: votive candles. These particular ones were
amassed in such number that flame leapt to flame, beckoning a two-year
old to the rickety stand where they blazed. Most wondrous of all,
he had discovered, was that light would dance with shadows when that
two-year old hand gave a gentle shove to the base of the stand.
As I shuttled between church
and carriage, saving one child from conflagration and the other from
concussion, I realized that breaking free was not happening for me.
I cleaned, cooked, chased the children, not the sun specks. I didn't
have any free time, and all of Rome was before me. I needed help.
I looked for a housekeeper.
My friends, the very ones who
had installed us in an apartment next to Quasimodo, said they knew
someone. They assured us that she would be perfect.
*
Her name was Virginia. Memory
denies me a clear picture of her features, but gifts me with her essence:
I see the square, solid lines of the body, the black eyes that watched,
understanding everything. I see the wrapped house dress and black
stockings rolled above the knee, an outfit familiar to anyone who
has seen a post-war Italian film. The casting would have worked for
she was that post-war survivor, a woman tempered by the exigencies
of war and poverty. Tough and unflinching, life had taught her what
was essential.
Unflinching. From the first encounter:
"I am a cook, not a housekeeper, but I was told you had bambini.
There are bambini, no?" These words were spoken from the doorway.
She did not intend to enter until the fact of bambini was confirmed.
I didn't need to answer. A soccer
ball was punted down the hall, followed by laughing Genghis running
fast, faster, fastest straight into a lip-cracking crash against that
ooh-aah, ooh-aah, patina.
"I'll start today,"
said Virginia shoving me aside as she entered. She picked up my son.
"Oop la," she said swinging him. Virginia had arrived. As
I watched her, I had a feeling that though I would be paying the salary,
the real padrona had just crossed the threshold, and a new phase of
my Roman life was beginning.
With the maximum amount of severity
a Byron-lover could muster, I instructed her that I didn't need a
cook. I like to cook, was a good cook. After all, I owned twenty cookbooks.
It was then that I heard the first whoosh.
Virginia was missing one tooth
on the side of her mouth. When she disapproved she would draw air
through the tooth - whooooosh. She had survived a World War. She would
survive novice cooking and Byronic tendencies, but she didn't have
to approve.
At that time I described myself
as a fearless cook, a tendency encouraged by my purchase of Julia
Child's extraordinary French cookbooks. Upon reflection, I'm more
inclined to use the words rash, reckless, foolhardy. While other novice
cooks were panicked by the instructions on the back of a box of Minute
Rice, I was plunged up to my elbows in pâte feuilletée.
Now I had my Italian cookbooks and did not need or want any guidance.
Virginia accepted. Though she was a cook, she settled for housekeeper.
From the start we loved her and
she loved us. While I pored through my cookbooks she would tend to
the children. She would feed them - apple slices for my son, fresh
applesauce for my daughter which she made by scraping a peeled apple
with a spoon. Once full, the spoon went directly into my daughter's
mouth. I watched, saw the slow rhythm of scrape and feed, perfect
for the pleasure and digestion of a baby. I watched and learned, though
I never said anything.
When not buffing patina, she
would play with my children. Mop in hand, she'd chase Genghis, roaring
at a frightening decibel level, while my daughter dangled upside down
under her arm, a position that brought laughing terror to Avalanche.
But love didn't stop her from
disapproving. I encountered whooshes on a regular basis, for she was
watching me make trips to the supermarket and she was growing frustrated.
One day when I returned form the supermarket with withered lettuce
and mushy tomatoes, she could stand it no more. That day the whoosh
had the intensity of a hurricane.
"Romans do not shop in supermarkets,"
she said, speaking with deliberation so that I would understand that
this was indeed an urgent issue. Haltingly I explained that I was
intimidated by the market since my Italian was so bad. I needed to
see prices written down on paper.
She took off her apron and grabbed
the babies. "IL Campo dei Fiori," she commanded. 'When in
Rome,' I thought to myself.
*
The Campo de' Fiori is officially
known as Rome's largest open air market, a vast square where the abundant
produce grown in the volcanic soil of the countryside is massed daily.
It was close to home, but this would be my first trip. Babies in tow,
we walked through a few narrow streets, turned a corner and there
it was - the market.
They had lied. Could the country
that produced Rafaelo, Tintoretto, Leonardo da Vinci create anything
so mundane as a market? What opened before us was a radiating blend
of oranges, reds, purples, of so many shades of green that color streaked
before the eye. No, this was not a produce market, this was an impressionist
painting, but this painting was alive and we could walk into its opacity,
soak in the saturating density of color.
Guided by Virginia I wheeled
the children around the vast market, all of us wrapped in color, listening
to the fugue of vendors' voices. "Fragole della compagna,"
sang the strawberry vendor, who was then answered by the other vendors.
"Scampe fresche," sang the fishmonger, "ci sono pomodori
belli," responded the produce man, a round sung loud in voices
that hinted at the ability to produce a Pavarotti.
I bought grapes from stands that
were swarming with bees, trusting Virginia's assurance that the bees
were too drunk to harm anyone. I bought artichokes that came on long
stalks and were trimmed on the spot by the vendors. I bought delicate
white cherries whose stems had been woven together so that they resembled
bunches of grapes.
Virginia handled the money transactions,
but when we were nearly finished shopping, I knew it was my turn.
I had a large bunch of dahlias in my hand and had to pay the flower
woman.
"Quanto costa?" I asked.
"Seicento lire, signora."
Six hundred lire.
Thinking she had said seven hundred,
I handed her too much money. She handed back one hundred lire, correcting
my Italian as she did. I had done it. I had made a purchase.
I looked at Virginia. She was
smiling. She knew, oh that witch, she knew. Supermarkets had been
exorcised.
Almost. I still wouldn't contend
with the butcher, for I suffered from an acute case of macelleria-phobia.
Yes, I was a butcher shop phobic. More debilitating than any run-of
the mill fear of spiders or snakes, what I feared was heads: there
were heads in the windows of the butcher stores and they were displayed
with pride and prominence. The dish was called testa and was considered
a great delicacy, but I could not bring myself to even look in the
window. There were skinned lamb heads, their baldness making them
look like an artist's idea of extra-terrestrials. Worse yet, there
were calf's heads. Split in two and resting central to the display,
each head had an ear and, to my horror, a single eye staring in rebuke
at us carnivores. I vowed that I would never enter the macelleria.
The supermarket would be fine.
I hadn't counted on whooshes.
If I wanted Virginia's respect, I would have to confront the butcher.
I decided to buy a chicken. Pollo was an easy word.
I set off through the cobblestone
streets, head held high but secretly praying to all deities everywhere
that I would return with a chicken, not the head of cow or lamb. Once
at the butcher, I hesitated. A new shipment of heads had arrived.
The window was packed. Frantically I considered becoming a vegetarian.
I could bring home beans and no-one would know the difference. Except
Virginia. 'When in Rome,' I repeated like a mantra as I crossed the
threshold of the butcher shop.
"Pollo," I stated, inadvertently
hitting my first public high C.
The butcher smiled. "C'e
testa oggi, signora," he said. He smiled again, that congenial
lover of decapitated cows.
"Pollo," I said, bleating
like one of those skinned lambs. "Pollo, pollo, pollo."
"Va bene," he shrugged,
looking at me quizzically.
It was obvious that he knew I
was a head-fearing coward, and he wanted me out of his store, for
he attended to my order rapidly. Within minutes I had left the macelleria.
It had been a struggle, but I had triumphed. I had done as the Romans
do and had shopped at the butcher's.
My sense of triumph was dashed
when I reached home and opened the package. To my great horror Italian
chickens also had heads and this one was still attached. As were its
feet and a few unplucked feathers. This never happened in the land
of Styrofoam I thought, and shouted for Virginia.
With my daughter dangling upside
down under her arm, she came to my rescue. She handed Avalanche to
me, grabbed a knife and, with one decisive chop, severed the loathed
head. Then she whooshed. I looked away in shame and she seized the
moment: she took over the cooking. She threw head and feet in water
to make brodo.
Virginia had entered the kitchen.
She was a cook, not a housekeeper.
*
I had opened the door. Virginia
walked through it. Bringing both babies with her, she followed me
into the kitchen to oversee my every move. I accepted defeat and learned
to really cook Italian food.
From her I learned ancient secrets:
that Spaghetti alla Carbonara needed a little milk to 'imbiacare'
(whiten) the sauce; that the tips of dandelion mixed with garlic,
anchovy, oil and vinegar could be made into a salad that was a specialty
of the Romans; that despite my original squeamishness, the head and
feet of chicken were a rich addition to broth, especially for stracciatella,
the Roman chicken soup which has egg and parmigiano added at the moment
of serving.
Her kitchen wasted nothing. Stems
and peelings of vegetables were saved for a nourishing stock, as were
frequently discarded bones. I grew to love the sight of small red
roots of Roman spinach, or pea pods bubbling in a pot. The glory of
soup made from what I would have discarded in former days became my
joy, and I watched my babies grow without colds or sicknesses.
She taught me how to use a cookbook.
I learned that what the authors of cookbooks offer is their inspiration,
their creative joy, not a chemical formula to be followed slavishly.
If I loved a recipe, I followed it, if it suited my taste to add a
little of this, take away a little of that, I did so. I learned to
participate with the author by playing with recipes. Virginia taught
me to break free.
*
And break free I did, for all
was not the kitchen. Since I trusted her with my children, I had a
chance to take a book of Keats, walk to the little house next to the
Spanish steps were Keats lived and read a poem out loud for all the
city to hear. I went to the Castel Sant'Angelo, setting of "Tosca,"
and sang one line of Puccini out loud before shrinking into my shyer
self. I went to the Sistine Chapel those many planned times, though
I hardly was able to copy Michelangelo. With or without guidebooks,
I sallied forth to do as the Romans do.
I also broke free of the kitchen
often enough to discover some of Rome's great restaurants, though
my husband and I preferred the local trattorie. We returned frequently
to the trattoria of the fresh porcini mushrooms. Out Lady of the Cape
continued to eat there, and continued to provide a spectacular display
of 'buona sera.' By now however, I had begun to understand her. Somehow
I knew that if Our Lady had no fur-lined cape, she would toss a tablecloth
around her shoulders and enjoy herself just as much. Her drama was
not about wealth. It was about living life to its fullest for it never
could, never would, be that day again. Longing to be her, I made a
decision. I abandoned sotto voce and hurled myself into the uncharted,
self-dramatizing theater of Rome. I bought a cape.
And not just a cape, but one
of such volume that it swirled even when I stood still. I also bought
boots. And not just boots, but ones that moseyed up, up, up, over
the knee. I swirled my cape, and spouted Byron even when winter turned
to spring. Listening to the reverberation of my boots, I heard the
echo of Michelangelo's boots as he strode the self-same cobblestones
hurrying to the Sistine Chapel. Did I care that Dante was Florentine,
that Romeo and Juliet were but characters in a play set in Verona?
They too rose in the resonance of my boots. I was Michelangelo. I
was Dante. I was both Romeo and his beloved Juliet, for this was Rome,
the Eternal City. Eternity lived in the heels of my boots.
*
Capes aren't in style and I live
now in New York, not Rome. To the average observer I am just another
New Yorker dressed in a black wool coat. To anyone who has ever been
to Rome, however, it is obvious that I am wearing a cape, and that
the lining is made from sun specks. The folds of the cape absorb the
sounds of New York: the staccato accents of two Spanish women walking
in front of me, their heads bobbing, their dark curls curtsying; the
whistling plea for money from the toothless gent with the ragged paper
cup and more ragged, pomegranate-red nose; the hiss of a steam pipe
whose vapors spiral into the sky.
Within the folds of memory new
songs jostle with the song of the strawberry vendor. Smiling, I add
a few coins to the cupped treasure of the whistling, toothless man.
It never will, never can, be this day again.
©Diana Serbe 2001
All rights reserved
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