ROMAN REDUX: Part One

ROMAN REDUX
By the Lonesome Traveler

SFO Airport

What is this strange mixture of anticipation and trepidation that I always feel at the start of every trip? Perhaps it’s not so odd after all, as every journey, even to the familiar, is also a launch into the unknown. Part of the feeling has to do with the suddenness with which all my trips seem to commence. No matter for how long I’ve planned and how well I’m prepared, the actual moment of leaving always takes me by surprise: how and when did this happen? All of this is by way of introduction to say that I’m on the move once more—Romeing again, to be exact. Now you know what my wish was when I finally threw my coin into the Trevi Fountain in March—but I never thought it would happen so soon. Simply, I didn’t get enough of Rome then, so I’m heading back to scratch the itch, for nine nights this time. This visit, I hope, will be more of a soaking in than my usual go, go, go type of vacation. At least that’s the plan; we’ll see if I can stick to it. So welcome aboard; the nice thing is you can disembark at any time—I’m here for the long haul.
London, Heathrow

I begin this trip with something of a handicap—I am a bit of a traveling freak show. For the previous couple of weeks, I’ve been experiencing some not-so-hot flashes in an eye I injured a few months back. The hole in the retina that was repaired is holding up well, but the eye doc discovered two more. I had laser surgery two days before I left, and my left eye is, quite literally, a bloody socket. If you saw the first Terminator, you may remember the scene where Arnold repairs his eye; that will give you the idea. A livid bruise which now embraces the whole eye further compounds the problem: the doc says it should all clear up in a decade or two. To combat the ugly American look, I wear sunglasses everywhere, which in dark places tends to make me grope. The shades have to fit over my rather large regular glasses, so I have the goggled look of a WWI aviator.
Rome

My hotel is just a few blocks from the Via Veneto where many of the five star hotels are located—it is, however, not one of them. It belongs to that class which is usually called tourist—which can also be spelled c-h-e-a-p. My room is not that bad; it has four walls, a floor, and a ceiling—if it had a door, it would be perfect. Actually, it has AC (which keeps the temp in the low nineties), a TV, a bath with a bidet, a toilet, and a hand held shower in the tub. It is quite small; though there is one place where I can turn around if I’m careful. It’s the only closet I’ve ever seen with its own closet. Well, it’s 11 p.m., nine hours ahead of many of you. I’ve been up about thirty-two hours and traveling for about twenty-four, so I’m going to try for some real sleep instead of the dozes.
Hunger Strike

A slow day as I was getting acclimated: I was up at 7:30 and took a couple of long walks, one in the morn and another in the eve. The immediate area around my hotel is flat, but sooner or later every direction tends downward; maybe I’m on one of Rome’s seven. It’s hard to tell though, as by California standards some of Rome’s hills are more like mounds—or speed bumps.

My a.m. walk was to familiar haunts: the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, the Pantheon, and Navona Square; they’re still there, left over from March, so maybe Rome is the Eternal City. I taxied back to the hotel and took a nap, which somehow turned into a five-hour siesta—I guess things finally caught up with me.

The evening walk was into new haunts for me around Popolo Square, an upscale shopping area punctuated by churches; which, if they’re open, I always go into. None were spectacular, but they’re all unique and usually have something of interest. About 7:30 sudden exhaustion hit, and I found I had done it again—forgotten to eat that is. I had had a croissant and a bottle of juice in the morning, but nothing after that. I don’t know what it is about travel, but often I don’t get hungry. Without a regular routine to remind me, I either put mealtimes off or just plain forget. For me constant travel would probably be the perfect diet.

Speaking of food, it has occurred to me that the last time around I barely sampled the famous Italian cuisine. I thought that this time I should indulge a little. I made a stab at it Saturday night at a sidewalk café just down the street from my hotel. I had brochette (paper thin beef and parmesan with some kind of vegetable, maybe spinach, all marinated in oil and vinegar). Eaten with dry Italian bread, it is quite good. For the main course I had pasta with salmon—well, the flavor of the sauce was salmon; the fish itself had mostly gone missing. Apparently it just swam through the sauce without unduly lingering. Perhaps I’m being uncharitable; maybe the poor thing was on its way to spawn and couldn’t spare the time. The pasta itself was al dente (in which I’m a firm believer); however, I’m not so sure that it should shatter like glass when impacted by a fork. I usually drink bottled water, which like the meal comes with or without gas; but, at least, you get to choose. Will I eat there again? Probably, it wasn’t that bad.

Tonight, in the middle of my inadvertent hunger strike, I was hustled by a street-corner tout who led me down an alley to another sidewalk café. It turned out to be a serendipitous choice as the food was excellent—a salad, grilled filet mignon, and ice cream and strawberries to die for—which I almost did when I got the bill: forty euros including tip. The euro has moved ahead of the dollar, and European Union countries are certainly no bargain for U.S. tourists. At the end of the meal, the tout tried to entice me to an around-the-corner piano bar; when I refused, I thought he was going to cry—I guess the Italians are an emotional people.

I got back to the hotel at 10:00 p.m., and I’m off to bed to see what my decadent nap did to my already naughty sleeping habits. I’ve developed an extremely sore spot on my right heel, so will see what the morrow brings. I must remember not to step out too boldly into the street, as after a relatively quiet Sunday, Roman traffic will once again be humming.
Foot Joins the Eye Curse

Well, the foot is not doing much better; no blister, but it is quite sore. I did around five or six miles Sunday, which I thought was reasonable, but apparently my feet were of a different opinion. About 8 a.m. I limped down to a Pharmacia and bought some heel pads. Sitting on the curb, I bandaged up, then gimped back to the hotel and a long siesta. I could get used to this routine—very civilized. I understand there is some recent research recommending a daily nap. It would certainly stretch out the work and school day…but would anybody in America take advantage of it?

In the late evening I strolled around my neighborhood, which has the odd shop here and there but is mostly made up of restaurants (does nobody in Rome eat at home?) and banks. I have never seen so many banks, not just in my neighborhood, but everywhere. Take away the churches and banks and Rome would shrink by half. Maybe the city does represent the world and what it aspires to: a complete union of the church and mammon. Depending on your proclivities, there is no lack of places in which to worship.
Baths, Roads, and Such

The following morning the foot was still sore, but time was wasting and I set off around 9:00 a.m. My first stop was at the Baths of Diocletian, by far the most extensive of Rome’s many baths. They covered twenty-seven acres and accommodated 3000 bathers at a time—which, depending on your personality, may be about 2,999 too many. Of course, the baths were also fitness clubs, shopping malls, eating establishments, and social and business centers. According to the cinema I’ve seen, if any Roman plots were hatching, they always started in a steamy atmosphere.

There’s really very little left of this once mighty complex, a few walls and some rooms. A Michelangelo designed church sits where the main bathhouse used to be. The interior is quite vast and grand, retaining, so the guidebook says, much of the flavor of the original. Eight huge pillars (also original) help hold up the center nave. It’s no St. Peters (what is, the Grand Canyon, maybe?), but it is still quite impressive. Down the street is a well-preserved section including the Octagonal Room; it contains a dozen or more statues. One, a nude Aphrodite, teeters between the erotic and the comedic. A little more than life size, she is headless but holds in both hands at shoulder height large tresses of her hair—for all the world as if she were thinking: “Now where in the world am I going to put these darn things?”

In the middle of the room the restorers left a circular glass-covered hole, which is designed to show that the original floor was twenty-eight feet lower than the present one. With typical Italian efficiency the lighting has been arranged so that from any angle the visitor sees only a reflection of the ceiling. The barbarians cut off the aqueducts in the 500’s, and the A.D.’s turned to the B.O.’s. Actually, the ancient Romans never did discover soap (although their emperors were constant living soap operas); they used sticks instead, which seems a little weird to me.

On down the road (by this time you might think that I would be getting to know my way around Rome a bit, but no; outside my Navona Square/Trevi Fountain route—and that gets problematical any time I vary it slightly—I still depend on the map and the kindness of strangers. There are only six streets in all of Rome that run in the same direction as any other; plus there is a law that every street has to change its name within three blocks. Trevi Fountain, which is named for three converging roads—tre vi—actually has five exits and entrances)…now where was I? Oh, heading for the church of Santa Maria Maggorie. The church is old (5th century) but extremely well preserved. It’s as ornate as any—a gold encrusted ceiling among other bric-a-brac—but it has a simple, open feel. The thing that brought me here is the altar, under which is a glass case containing some fragments of Christ’s crib. I’m fascinated, not by these relics themselves, but by the faith—or the complete suspension of reason—that it takes to believe in them. One has only to observe for a few minutes to see that there are people who do believe. Bernini, the “if it ain’t Baroque, then fix it” sculptor, is buried here—more on him tomorrow.

Next, I strolled to the Coliseum but decided to skip another tour of that vast, overcrowded place. I did wander through one of my favorite places, the Forum, then struggled up the Capitoline Hill, sat in the shade, and finally taxied back to the hotel for my now customary siesta.

One of the things that has curtailed my peregrinations somewhat has been the heat. It has hovered around 90 plus degrees each day, plus it’s quite muggy; even at night it only cools down to 70 or so. Tomorrow I’m off to the Villa Borghese and a Bernini fest.

Villa Borghese

There are, if I may say so, some ferociously ugly cars in Europe, none more so than a moving violation of good taste called the Smart—I simply will not comment on the name. Visualize a typical minivan, downsize it by about forty-five per cent, move the rear wheels forward, and then abruptly chop the body off right behind the front side windows. One could get the same effect by enclosing two wheelchairs side-by-side. And yet, they’re everywhere, as ubiquitous as Honda Civics in California; and driven, as far as I can tell, without shame or remorse. Returning to my hotel last night, I got my comeuppance from one. A dirty gray version was parked (well, “situated”; cars in Rome are not parked; they are situated wherever there is some figment of an open space) in the general vicinity of the curb. On the side in large letters, I read my name: _____ _____. There were other words I couldn’t translate—probably a foot and eye curse.

Speaking of my eye, it’s about the same, still as bruised and bloodshot as ever. I tend to forget about it until I see people staring, and then averting their gaze when I make eye contact. This must be the way lepers used to feel. It makes me wish I had a glass eye: I would love to take it out, toss it in the air, catch in my mouth, and pretend to swallow. I prefer the direct approach of the waiter who looked at me, giggled, pointed, and said, “Your wife?” I smiled and gently replied, “No, yours; after I broke off our affair.” No, no, of course, I didn’t say that—I don’t know enough Italian.

As long as I’m harping, let’s get into one of everybody’s favorite subjects: menus. In Rome they can be somewhat approximate. Finding something that is actually being served is more a matter of elimination than of selection. I am waiting to discover a restaurant in which nothing on the menu is actually on the premises—I would pay to eat there.

The foregoing is—don’t ask me how—an introduction to my Borghese Gallery visit. I walked there around 10 a.m.; it’s situated (though not like the cars) in a large park about a half-mile from my hotel. The park is a welcome spot of green in a mostly concrete and stone city. I was expecting to have to make reservations for a day or two ahead; but, much to my surprise, they had an opening in fifteen minutes. Every two hours they let in 360 visitors for a strictly regulated two hour visit. It’s an art museum in the original villa the Borgheses built to house their extensive and expensive collection, so it’s all of a piece. The villa, with its large gardens, is itself a work of art.

The first floor has some paintings but is mostly devoted to sculpture from the ancient Greeks to the early 1800’s. The first thing that really caught my eye was Pauline, Napoleon’s sister who married a Borghese. Half nude (this is her statue, you understand) she half reclines on a divan; and while I can’t claim she’s smirking, she is totally unembarrassed. Canova was the sculptor. When the statue was first made public, it caused something of a scandal. Asked how she could pose is such a way, Pauline replied, “Easy, the room wasn’t cold.” Good answer. This is a work of art that cries out to be touched—no, no, wipe that smirk off your face and elevate your mind: it’s the mattress—no way it’s marble. It’s indented by her body, wrinkled from her weight, and even has a stain at the foot—though I’m not sure that’s intentional. The urge to touch the mattress to see if it’s real is almost irresistible.

Bernini is the real star of the Gallery. He lived throughout most of the 1600’s and redid much of Rome in the Baroque, an ornate style which, depending on your taste, borders on excess. Like Michelangelo and Leonardo he was an all-a-rounder who sculpted, painted, designed, and engineered. Among other projects in Rome and around the world, he designed St. Peter’s Square. Three of his large sculptures were on display in the Gallery: David in the act of slinging the stone at Goliath—you tend to flinch when you first walk in the room and face him; Apollo and Daphne just as he grabs her and just as she starts to turn into a tree (you’ve gotta read the legend); and the Rape of Proserpine, as Pluto carries her off accompanied by his three headed dog Cerberus.

All of these are realistic studies in action, and rather violent action at that; these statues almost move. They’re beautiful and volatile. Still I prefer the restraint that Michelangelo shows; there’s not much character development in these Bernini’s. I had never appreciated the possibilities of stone though, until I examined the works of these two sculptors—the very stones can cry out.

Upstairs it’s mostly paintings: Rubens, Botticelli, Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian to drop a few names I know, and there is a host of others I don’t know. My argument with painting in general is that while I could probably tell a Titian from a Turner, I doubt I could tell a Titian from a Raphael unless I already knew the painting—and there’s usually too many of the dang things. I’m thinking that museums should probably insist that anyone but art experts look at two or three paintings for an hour or so each and then go home—maybe then people would have some idea of what they had seen.
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Tomorrow I plan to say “hello” to Moses.

(continued)