Roma '98

ROMA 1998
“The days that make us happy make us wise.”

Wednesday, January 21

The trip to Rome came up like thunder, on a Tuesday morning: an announcement of availability on my E-Savers program, a cursory review of vacation time available, and the rapid decision. I called my travel angel Connie Norcross, who -- bless her -- found me a hotel in Rome in a matter of hours. So on a cold Wednesday afternoon, I left my office early, drove home, then took the T to the airport. Changing planes briefly in Philadelphia, we flew directly to Rome. One of the bonuses of a long flight is a generous allotment of reading time, so I settled down into my book, Terrible Honesty, which kept me quite happily entertained. Luckily the seat next to me was empty, so I was later able to stretch out -- for all the good that did me. I had brought along a single melatonin tablet and a sleep mask. As usual on a plane, I slept fitfully -- perhaps 2 hours. That always seems to be my limit. It must have been refreshing enough, for I was never to get anything like jet lag on the whole trip or after my return. I woke to a brilliant band of red stretching across the eastern sky, and looked down to see the French countryside dozing far below. The Alps were even more spectacular this time than on my previous trip. Five years ago, we flew further south; the mountains possessed a dreamlike quality, but here directly overhead, one felt their power rising into the sky. When we passed over Nice and Monte Carlo, a man from across the aisle joined me. His name is Richard deMeir; he’s a graphic designer from Los Angeles. His family was originally from Sardegna, which soon passed below us. He was friendly and pleasant, and gave me his e-mail address. He wants me to let him know how I spent my time in Rome, so I will. Lucky Richard has a cousin in Rome to visit.
We circled widely over Rome and environs, and once again I saw Ostia Antica below, a ghostly shell of city. Deplaning with a high heart and spring in my step, I raced along through the crowd, eager to get into the city, but suddenly found myself confronted with an impossible glut of people trying to get through customs. The process was maddening, and took a full fifty minutes.
I wasn’t quite sure how to get into Rome itself, but saw signs leading to the railroad. Neither of my guidebooks indicates that the train will get one into the city, but I was game, and armed with a mere handful of Italian words, made my way to the bigliateria. I was able to get a ticket, but found I had to wait for half an hour. Still, it was a new way to get into the city -- for me -- and the train went directly to Stazione Termini. The tracks went right by the impressive Porta Maggiore, and I could see my old hotel, a glimpse of an old friend.
The station itself was larger and more confusing than I remembered. I despaired of finding a ticket for the return to the airport, but put it out of my mind: Rome was just outside, beckoning me on to pleasure. I emerged into the bright sunlight, thrilling after the crepuscular gloom of the station, and dodging traffic, got through Piazza della Repubblica without being run down by one of the thousands of cars and Vespas, and barged down Via Nazionale, on the lookout for my hotel.
The Hotel Miami is on the fifth floor of a not-terribly-distinguished building, in a street of shops and bars. I took the elevator up to the lobby and was checked in by a tall, lugubrious clerk with saddish, thick black eyebrows, who possessed an impeccable command of English. I didn’t care for him: I bravely flung my Italian at him but he insisted on answering in English. He took me down to my room. It was very dimly lit and rather cramped, but I didn’t plan to spend much time there.
I unpacked my shoulder bag, just leaving in the basics, and immediately walked to Via del Corso. I had in mind several items I wanted to shop for, my primary objective being a CD set I’ve been wanting to find for ages. It’s Nino Rota’s opera, based on the Labiche farce The Italian Straw Hat, rendered into Italian as Il Cappello di Paglia di Firenze. It is absolutely unavailable in America; I know -- I’ve searched for it unsuccessfully for at least two years.
One of the record shops cited in my guidebook was on Via Frattina, but it was closed down, fronted with an iron gate, forbidden me by the lovely custom of siesta. I found I was getting rapidly hungry, so I settled down at a sidewalk table at Bar Frattina. With some difficulty I flagged down a very harried waiter, ordered a glass of wine and Spaghetti all’Amatriciana and amused myself with the basket of bread provided. After 20 minutes another waiter told me the pasta I wanted was gone, an announcement I felt he might have made somewhat earlier. So I left. I quickly found another little bar and had a caffe doppio and a panino of cheese and spinach. Delicious and more filling than I expected.
Finding myself at the Tiber, I walked north along it, looking at the water, which unfortunately possesses the most unsettling color of snot. I crossed at Ponte Regina Margherita, and discovered a wonderful new neighborhood. This was the farthest north I had come in Rome, but I had a goal in mind, Teatro Manzoni, where a production of Allegro Spirito, an adaptation of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit was playing. Since I had played the male lead in the early seventies, I hoped my familiarity with the original play might stand me in good stead. But for the moment, I had found Via Cola di Rienzo, a wide street lined with inviting shops.
My camera had been giving me fits, and refused to work. I decided the problem was my battery, so I stopped at a shop and replaced it, then walked north to Piazza Giovanni Mazzini. Next to another CD shop -- another unsuccessful shot at the Rota -- I found a parfumerie, where I was able to buy film from a lovely young woman. She directed me to Teatro Manzoni, right around the corner, where I bought a ticket for Friday night, fifth row, first seat on the center aisle.
Now that I had achieved one of my objectives, I walked back across the Tiber by way of Via Settembrini, then to Piazza dei Popoli. To my delight, I found it far grander than I’d remembered from my previous visit. Like the rest of Rome, the vast piazza was terrorized by the swarms of young people on Vespas. These tiny motorscooters are the bane of Rome, some say, and hardly an hour passed on my perambulations through the city that I didn’t curse the riders of these “wasps.” But I know full well that if I lived in Rome, I would have one too. After all, their sheer navigability is irresistible. And later in the day, indeed every day, as I found myself wincing with every fresh step, I strongly considered overpowering one of the riders of these machines and commandeering it for my own use. I spent that part of the afternoon prowling the Via del Corso, shopping for a shirt. The displays of clothing are dazzling. I found one, a sober dark brown shirt with a pale orange weave pattern. Further down the Via del Corso, I stopped at the shop where I’d bought Il Campiello del Paese on my previous trip for another try at the Rota CDs. A bored clerk, who seemed to know nothing about her stock, declared that she hadn’t heard about it. Just then, immediately behind her, I spotted it! It’s an old recording, conducted by the composer and long out of print, but it had been newly re-released -- and only that week! I consider finding these CDs a major triumph.
Back at the Hotel, I donned my new shirt, a perfect fit, making me look slim as a cigar. I was determined to find a Restaurant where I’d had a memorable meal last time, somewhere in the vicinity of Campo dei Fiori. I set out to find it, certain of success, but had absolutely no luck. I wandered the warren of tawnily lit streets, timelessly beautiful at night, but never found it. I didn’t know the name, which of course would have been a tremendous help. I found a place that might have been it, but I was by no means certain. I ended up facing the east bank of the Tiber, unsuccessful in my quest. I had gone in the wrong direction. So I got my bearings and headed toward Piazza Navona, thinking the restaurant might possibly have been there. Instead I found Ristorante Terra di Siena. It looked so inviting I went in.
I was shown to my table by a pretty young waitress, a young Anna Maria Alberghetti type, and ordered first, the Bresaola con Rughetta e Parmigiana, a salad of arugula, shaved parmesan on a bed of pancetta. My piato secondo was Papardelle al Sugo di Cinghiale, impossibly wide noodles in a reduced sauce of pork, tomatoes and hot pepper, exquisite, a fiery mouthful of flavor. With this I ordered what I‘d been looking forward to most of all, a quarter liter of soft red Tuscan wine.
It was latish, and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get to bed a bit early. Still, I had energy to spare and the last thing I wanted to do was retire for the night. So on the way back to the hotel I walked into a bar on Via Magnanapoli, where I was served by a jawdroppingly handsome waiter with hypnotic, wolfish eyes and a killer smile. His face was made noteworthy, but not at all disfigured, by a pattern of pale scars, perhaps the result of a bustup on his Vespa. I ordered caffe hag (decaffinated) and a slice of cassatta alla Siciliana, which he assured me was perfezione -- and I was not disappointed. Then I walked reluctantly back to the hotel, forced myself to go to bed, and slept the sleep of the blessed.

Friday, January 23

I bounded out of bed at 8:00, breakfasted quickly, then strolled down Via Nazionale toward the Vittorio Emmanuele monument in the distance. It was a glorious day, mostly clear but for a few ragged scraps of cloud in the distance. Once more I began to have camera trouble, but discovered that if I simply popped the battery out and back in, it would fire once again. Still, it was troublesome and I longed to have my old reliable camera back, the one that I was relieved of by burglars in 1992. I walked around the monument, a long journey in itself, and went up Michelangelo’s slowly graduated ramp to the Capitoline Museum. First I stopped to appreciate the artist’s magnificent Campidoglio, and the elegant pattern of the piazza’s stonework.
I found the ticket office, and bought a ticket at the laughable rate of about three dollars. There were two buildings to see, and I chose first the hall featuring antique classical art. It was all magnificent, and I was especially impressed with the statue of the dying Gaul, a spectacular portrayal of male beauty, equally impressive from all sides. I clicked merrily away, but vaguely felt that my shots were possibly not coming off. It turned out I was right. I was impressed especially by the hall of heads, Roman portraits of such stunning individuality that their accuracy of portrayal is certain. As I came to the end of the exhibits in this building, I also came to the end of my roll, or rather, allotted number of exposures. Still the camera was behaving oddly. To finish up the roll past number 36, I kept shooting blank space, and the film advanced all the way to 54. So I knew it was a lost game. I finally managed to manually rewind it, inserted a new roll, which fed the way it was supposed to, and went across the piazza to the other building. In progress was a Matisse special exhibit. I went through the whole thing, but quickly. It didn’t seem quite right to spend time looking at the work of a French painter in this hall of classical art -- like going to Tokyo and ordering Paella alla Valenciana, which, by the way, I have done. More to my taste was the court in the middle of the building, featuring the huge head, hands and feet of Marcus Aurelius.
I couldn’t put it off another moment, my return to Trastevere. Wandering happily through the neighborhood I found it was still my favorite part of Rome. I threaded my way through the tiny vicoli of the area, and eventually ended up on Viale Trastevere. It was glutted with policemen, all looking quite ferocious and businesslike. Barricades lined the street and I soon found out why: a parade of Palestinians. At least I think they were Palestinians: many of them wore that black-patterned white rag that Yassir Arafat is never seen without. They were flanked, fore and aft, by battalions of police.
Part of what makes a return to a city rewarding is a return to well-beloved spots. On my previous visit, I’d found a fine art gallery featuring glass and ceramics, where I had visited with the owner, a charming, horsy woman who had impressed me with her friendliness. I never found it, sadly, but in the same area, there was a charming antique shop, where I discovered a lovely little olive oil container, made of copper and brass. Also in the same area was a tiny English bookshop, run by a starchy middle-aged Englishwoman. Two years before in Hong Kong I’d found a paperback I wanted, Lawrence Durrell’s Avignon Quintet. It is a full three inches thick and my bags were stuffed to bursting, so I reluctantly left it in Hong Kong, certain I could find it in America. In two years of searching I couldn’t find it, so I snapped it up now.
I walked by an inviting place, Ristorante Mario. The menu turistica was only L.17,000 (under $10), so I stopped for lunch. Spaghetti All’amatriciana, Pollo Fra Diavolo, some sort of steamed vegetable -- neither cauliflower nor broccoli but resembling both --, bread, wine, service included. Everything was fine, if not outstanding. The Pollo Fra Diavolo however was a surprise. Nothing diavolo about it, but it was falling-off-the-bone tender and sublimely tasty. Across the aisle from me, a man sat down. He looked exactly like the younger Vladimir Nabakov, except for a rabbity pair of front teeth. I said buon giorno, and he responded with a flood of friendly Italian. I have had this trouble before. My Italian accent is good but my grammar is elementary, my vocabulary not bad but not terribly supple. Many Italians hear the accent and assume that I can spin out a ribbon of speech with the smoothness of a Mastroianni. This man was typically Italian however in trying to draw me out. I had no time to prepare for this trip, so didn’t brush up on my Italian, and consequently found myself a bit more shy about trying. But he persisted, and I think he understood much of what I said.
Afterward, I found I needed lire and no exchanges were to be found in the area, so I sadly left Trastevere, across the Ponte Garibaldi. In Via dei Giubbonari I found an exchange, but since I was already growing supremely footsore, I didn’t return to Trastevere, but headed for Piazza Navona. I had no goal in mind, but just let the city’s spell enchant me all over again. Eventually I returned to the hotel and dressed for the theatre.
Luckily the nearest subway station was in Piazza del Repubbica. The train to the Lepanto stop was the one I wanted. It took me a bit of time to discover how to buy the ticket, but I wasn’t alone. Two charming Brazilian ladies were in the same boat. A tall Italian man finally took pity on us. I descended what seemed to be the better part of a mile into the bowels of Rome and a train arrived as I hit the bottom. It took less than ten minutes to get across the city and once again into the lovely night. The play opened at nine o’clock, which gave me plenty of time to find a restaurant. I needed it; there are few to be found in the area around Piazza Mazzini. But on the corner of the block where my theatre lay I found Gelateria Vanni. I really wanted to sit down, not just grab an admittedly delicious bite standing at a counter. Over the gelateria was a restaurant, but it was closed till eight, which would have meant a rushed meal. Though the kind offices of an extremely helpful and charming woman at Gelateria Vanni, I was shown to Ristorante Arcipelago.This place, like the gelateria, is part of a great conglomerate in the same building, including a bar and a tavola calda, similar to an American cafeteria. She had a few quick words with the headwaiter, who apparently let me sit down before they were officially open for dinner. I had walked myself to exhaustion by this time, so was grateful for the gesture. I had stumbled, it appeared, into another happy discovery.
The food was delightful, and the service hardly less so. Dinner started off with Fettucine al Salmone, a plateful of perfect pasta in a cream sauce bejewelled with bits of smoked salmon.This was accompanied by a quarter liter of white wine, and followed by Saltimbocca alla Romana, a bang! of flavor, and a reminder of my earlier trip to Rome. Thoroughly satiated, I nonetheless wanted to sit a while, and my play was at nine, so I walked around the neighborhood until I found a cafe on the point of closing. They generously let me in and I had a caffe doppio.
Teatro Manzoni is a new theatre on a tree-lined street, across from which are more of the enchanting little second-hand bookstalls found in richer profusion in Piazza della Repubblica. The auditorium itself, all red and white, is down a long stairway. I settled into my seat, a first-rate one. I was crushed that no programs were given out, not even for sale as they are in Britain, for I have an extensive collection of theatre programs from my decades of playgoing. Allegro Spirito was a joy nonetheless. Though physically the set gave one the impression we were in a suburban British household, as soon as the first actor came on, we were beyond all doubt in Italy. The maid Edith, played very broadly by a young actress named Annalisa Favetti, was a superior body comic, with frowsy blonde hair bursting forth from her pretty head like Independence Day fireworks. She set the comic tone beautifully. The Charles Condomine had been changed to Carlo Considine, played by Carlo Alighiero. Ruth, whom the translator had turned, oddly, into Muad -- certainly a mistake for Maud -- was a French actress, Martine Brochard. She was crisp, stylish, and no-nonsense, a perfect realization of the character. The Madame Arcati was Giovanna Rotellini, younger than the character is usually played, but a spherical delight -- extravagant gestures, overdone eye makeup, outlandish clothes -- just what one would expect of a self-dramatizing medium who turns out to be more effective than she suspected. Dr. and Mrs. Bradman usually come across as ciphers, but the actors here were memorable, especially the lady. She was an effervescent, kewpie-doll redhead and a lovely foil to her more sober husband. So far, so good. But at the end of Act 1, I got a nasty shock when Elvira arrived on stage. She was played by one Elena Cotta, a grandmotherly type a full 35 years too old for the part. Well, let’s be charitable: 30 years. Elvira is the ghost of a young wife, dead these many years. She should be young and bewitching, a sprite, a flirt, a will-o-the-wisp. One might more logically find the Elvira in this producation perched by the fire crocheting an afghan, a cat on her lap. This disastrous miscasting threw the whole play off. It was all the more upsetting because there were at least two actresses on stage who could have assayed the part more fittingly. I suspect theatre politics had much to do with this sad affair.
The audience was amused, but not nearly as much as I was. They laughed politely at all the jokes and farcical stage business, but the playing was fizzy enough to have evoked a better response than that. I laughed all the way through. Since I played Charles and the play itself is unforgettable, I knew I wouldn’t be too lost, even though my Italian was inadequate. There were very few full sentences I understood completely, but there wasn’t a moment in the whole play where I didn’t know what was going on. Aside from the badly cast Elvira, I loved every minute.
I took the train back to Piazza della Repubblica, with no difficulties this time, and went directly to bed.

Saturday, January 24

On my previous visit to Rome, I raced through the Vatican museums, simply to get to the Sistine Chapel. This time, I was determined to really get to know the collection. The only was to do it was to take it slowly, deliberately, and keep both eyes open. After breakfast, I took the train to the Ottaviano stop. I strolled up Via Ottaviano, looking in the tiny shops selling souvenirs of the Vatican. St. Peter’s Square from this angle looked larger than I’d remembered. They were taking down the huge Christmas tree from the middle, a major operation involving various pulleys and machines, and more people than were absolutely required.
There were no lines to get into the Vatican museums, probably due to Il Papa being in conference in Cuba this week with Castro. I went directly in, and without any real plan of attack, wandering the various rooms and galleries ad libitum. It is truly the finest collection of classical art I ever hope to see. Again, I was most impressed by a hall, long as a football field, featuring Roman sculpture, mostly portrait heads, which I can scan for hours on end.
The collection leads inevitably, certainly by design, to the Sistine Chapel. This time it was glutted by visitors, all maintaining a respectful silence. I took a more leisurely view this time, and kept making fresh discoveries. There are benches along the sides, which I hadn’t noticed previously, all taken up. I waited until a seat was free, which made viewing the ceiling, so far overhead, much more comfortable.
As I was leaving the museums, I discovered in the basement an undiscovered treasure, the Museo Etnologico, the Ethnological Museum. It was completely empty but for me and several guards. This, I decided, I could go through more quickly. It was a gorgeous place, though darker and more austerely modern, primitive and more sophisticated art displayed with dramatic lighting. One wandered through, viewing the treasures country by country, starting with China, and ending up with the Indians of North America. This part was the only disappointment, comprised as it was of numberless terra cotta heads of Indians in various headresses, also in terra cotta, dull stuff indeed. But by that time I was ready to go. I stopped briefly by the museum shop, and emerged into the beautiful daylight, a clear sky overhead. In all, I suppose I spent about three and a half hours in the Museums, a rich and satisfying visit. Though in truth, I could profitably have stayed for days.
The streets around the entrance to the Vatican are clustered with little eateries. Going down the long stairway of Via Tunisi, I found an ideal place for lunch, a pizzeria without that soulless, plasticky quality of its American counterpart, no cartoon characters, movie tie-ins, etc. I had a beer and what they call a pizza margherita, only crust, cheese and tomato -- real tomato pureed, not the dark, sour sauce that generally passes for tomato topping in your typical strip mall pizza palace. It was simple and delicious -- a very light crust that might have defied gravity altogether if the topping and cheese hadn’t been holding it down.
As was my custom, I walked down Viale Giulio Cesare till I found a gelateria, and had a gelato, Tiramisu this time, rich and sinful. Again at Via Ottaviano, I took the train to Flaminio stop, then walked through Piazza dei Popoli, dodging the damnable Vespas. It was time again for some serious shopping. On Via Vittorio, I found the world’s most beautiful tie, brown, with tulips in orange and gold and green. It was quite steepish, enough for me to hesitate. So I continued along this lovely section of Rome, this shoppers’ paradise. I did as many of the shops as I could fit in, then limped across Via del Corso toward Piazza Navona, muttering at the cobblestones, irregular enough to make walking painful. It became necessary to stop for a beer, primarily to enable me to sit at an outdoor café. The one I chose was directly across from the Fountain of the Four Rivers. It was bliss to sit by this time, and I sipped my beer as slowly as I dared. A short, squat man, hair pomaded to a shiny helmet, strolled back and forth in front of our tables singing gypsy songs to the accompaniment of his guitar -- charming if you looked elsewhere.
I had already seen much of the city; now I wanted to see the Pantheon again. Strangely enough, I think I was more impressed by it on this visit. It seemed less a shrine to Italian heroes -- Raphael, two kings -- than a splendidly preserved chunk of ancient Rome. And it is so vast.
I decided to go back and buy the tie I’d seen. I certainly would have regretted leaving something so beautiful behind. I went under Via del Corso this time, to a huge second hand bookstore which extends under the city, seemingly for blocks. I emerged to find a newsstand, and bought an International Herald Tribune. President Clinton, it seems, is thoroughly enmired in what can only be described as “Pussygate.” Well, if one lives by the sword...
I bought the tie and made my way back to the hotel, by way of Piazza del Repubblica, I bought two more CDs, collections of Italian popular songs from WWII. Then I dropped off my purchases at the hotel, rested very briefly, and went out to find dinner. I gave myself lots of time to slowly shop between the hotel and Via Veneto. After all, it was my last evening in Rome, and to return to Boston requiring a double amputation would have put rather a damper on the trip. Indeed, I would have been quite unable to walk quickly at this point. Just around the corner from my hotel, warmly glowing in the purple Roman night, was a shop selling tiles, ceramics for home and garden, glazed and plain earthenware. I walked in, and discovered another world. The shop was open to the sky; candles and little hidden lights were scattered all among the shop’s wares. I bought nothing, but perhaps I can return on another trip. Moving on to the Viale Bissolati, my eye was caught by the display in a haberdashery window, particularly another tie, orange with prancing gazelles. The owner was willing to take it from the mannequin’s throat, but it was ludicrously expensive, so I left it there.
Turning the corner of the Via Barberini I reached Via Vittorio Veneto, to give it its full name, a glittering boulevard lined with shops and outdoor cafés. Many of these, though still outside, are glassed in. I’ve never been to Paris, but this street must compare favorably to the Rue de la Paix. It’s surprising to find it’s only about three blocks long. At the end of the street, before entering the Villa Borghese, there is a small roundabout named for Federico Fellini, one of the higher gods in my personal pantheon. The neighborhood is a very integrated one, so I had no trouble searching it for the perfect restaurant. There are so many. I tried to get into Ristorante Marcello, which is very highly recommended by my Rome Access guide. Lots of other people thought so too; no tables were available until ten o’clock. A few doors down the street was another I had been considering, Ristorante Piccolo Mondo. There was no wait to get in, which eventually the quality explained. Not bad, just not memorable. I had the risotto nero, which I’d first tried and loved in Venice. It was again black as crankcase oil, but lacked that creaminess which indicates that the arborio rice has been properly boiled. But the flavor was full and rich, and went splendidly with my carafe of chianti. My piato secondo was several strips of veal in a rosy brown sauce, but some of the strips were tough and rubbery. The accompanying potatoes baked in oil and rosemary, however, were sublime. I finished with a crème brulée which ranks among the best desserts I’ve ever eaten. The custard was divinely creamy, and flavored delicately with an essence of orange; the crust was crunchy, dark and thrilling. I can’t be certain I wasn’t giving off little cries of pleasure. It was so good that I stopped at a table on the way out to recommend it to a couple I’d glimpsed during the meal. They were an older couple from Cleveland, and she had been thinking of getting the crème brulée anyway. My recommendation cinched it.
The Café de Paris around the corner on Via Veneto had a piano bar, which seemed to be the perfect end to my last evening, so thence I repaired. To my great disappointment, it was closed -- and on a Saturday night! -- so I headed back to the hotel to pack. On the lower dogleg of Via Veneto I found a great bookstore and stayed for the better part of an hour, barely able to tear myself away. The Italians must be great readers; there are fine bookstores all over the city, old ones, new ones, flyblown bookstalls by the parks, shimmering palaces off the Via del Corso. It’s times like these that I wish my Italian was more fluent.

Sunday, January 25

When I went down to breakfast, there was a new desk clerk on duty. I decided not to risk the madhouse of Stazione Termini, and perhaps fetch up late at the airport, so he ordered me a cab while I ate breakfast. Afterward, at the desk, I talked with a couple from Arizona who were enjoying the city as much as I, but for rather longer.
My driver to the airport was Ettore, a dark and charming guapo with black, black hair and a two-day beard. He was a bit gabbier than I would have preferred, since I wanted to see as much of Rome as I could, even as we whizzed through it. But Ettore himself turned out to be a compensation, quite friendly and nice looking, with a pleasantly husky voice that resonated a foot or so lower than my heart. He was, I suppose, what the world thinks a typical Italian man, and who’s to say he is not?
Ettore pointed out some of the sights I was unfamiliar with. He told me all about a building I’d noticed the day before, between the Via di Teatro di Marcello and the river. It is build on top of a skeleton of dilapidated ancient Roman wall, part of an early stadium. The later eighteenth century building is built right into its structure, and expanded in the twentieth century. It is used for elderly housing, which seems somehow fitting and beautiful. From there we crossed the Ponte Palatino and raced to the outskirts of Rome by way of Viale Trastevere.
On the long ride to the airport, Ettore complimented me on my Italian, but when I protested (it’s really quite elementary) he said that everything I said, if simple, was said correctly. My accent was good, “una lingua Romana in una bocca Toscana [A ROMAN TONGUE IN A TUSCAN MOUTH],” which I nonetheless must ascribe to the fact that Italians are generally accommodating and notoriously complimentary. Also, a better virtue, they are more forgiving of one’s errors with the language than other nations. (The French come immediately to mind.) He was quite impressed by the fact that I was a writer, and on arrival he asked for my address so he could write to me. It’s highly unlikely that he will, but what a nice surprise that would turn out to be.
On arrival, my processing was fast and efficient, but I was still glad I hadn’t taken the train. Now that the trip was really over, I just wanted to get on through. I went to the cambio and exchanged my lire back into dollars, which made me feel I really had left. Waiting for departure, I had one last gelato, this time a rich chocolate.
The flight back was largely uneventful, except for the worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced. By my calculations, this took place approximately over where the Titanic went down, a pretty thought.
In Philadelphia, customs went quickly and smoothly, I didn’t have to pay any duty, and was able to catch a flight one hour earlier than the one scheduled. However, there were weight problems with the plane which necessitated a return to the gate. The consequence was that we only left about ten minutes before the other plane. I sat next to a man from New Jersey who sat staring ahead without anything to do. I always wonder why people don’t read when they are in such a situation. Midway through the flight, we started talking. It turns out that Joe, a cousin to Jeff Foxworthy the comedian, is very much a great traveller, and a wine buff too. I told him about Klein Constantia, my favorite sauvignon blanc, and he was grateful for the advice.
I arrived home nice and early, took a taxi home, listened to one of my new CDs, and went to bed. It was a perfect trip, short but lively -- una vacanza piccola ma perfetta -- but still leaves me wanting more.