You will have noticed that I have temporarily changed the title of my blog. I am writing this from an apartment on Via Aurelia, close to the Vatican wall. For the next month, I will be writing from Rome.
My mother is doing research at the Vatican's Secret Archives, and she and my father have rented an apartment in Rome for one month. I was invited to come along; all I had to pay was my airline ticket. I figured, with no husband at home and having 24 hour charge of our baby, why not do in Rome what I would be doing at home? Except that in Rome, I can dine al fresco at a trattoria, see the Coliseum, climb the Spanish steps, and walk in Piazza San Pietro. In the past three days, I have already done these things, and more.
Before I go on, I would first like to apologize to those among my readers who think I may be bragging. I do not wish to brag. What I would like to do, is take you along with me.
Imagine, if you will, a busy street in Rome, lined with 18th century palaces, the façades of which have been blackened by time, dirt and diesel. Now, take a left turn on a narrow, not-so-busy, cobblestone street, which leads to the small Piazza San'Ignazio. Here it is quiet. Around you stand apartment buildings with shutters on the windows and baskets of flowers hanging on the window sills. A trattoria - pizzeria, where tables and wicker chairs are set under white parasols, quietly awaits the dinner hour. Before you rises a 17th century church, the church of San'Ignazio, imposing in its size, beggin the question of how it manages to be tucked away, seemingly hidden, in this quiet Piazza.
We enter the church and slowly make our way down the nave, admiring the detailed illusionist ceiling, which looks like a dome but was in fact painted on flat canvas. While we stand in silent contemplation, my baby, who is in her stroller playing with her feet, suddenly purses her lips together and emits a very loud fart-like "Pppprrrrrrr" sound.
"Thank you for your opinion," my mother says, and I try not to laugh.
When we once again step outside, I take another look at the buildings surrounding the piazza, at the cobblestone and the trattoria, and I feel that I am really in Rome.
That feeling would very soon fade. After a few minutes' walk, I suddenly found myself in Disneyland.
Actually, it was the Fountain de Trevi. I have read that one can hear the fountain before one sees it. All I could hear, and indeed see, were the crowds. Hundreds, perhaps a thousand, people were piled around the fountain. Wives were being photographed about to throw a coin over their left shoulder with their right hand into the fountain. Teenagers were climbing over and under railings. Romans carrying polaroids were trying to cash in on the fountain's popularity by offering, for a small price, to take tourists' picture as they tossed their coins. Big as well as skinny men dressed as Roman legionnaires charged 3 euro to take a picture with them. Vendors called on the crowd to buy their pictures, jewelry and toys.
As I stood in mute amazement, I suddenly heard three sharp whistle blows. Police men and women were standing guard around the fountain. Apparently not achieving the results they had hoped for, the continued to blow into their whistles, this time with long, drawn-out breaths, making their faces turn purple in the process. Some of the fountain's patrons had decided it would be a good idea to stand on the very slippery, marble edge, over which water tended to run, thus making it very likely that they should slip and fall, thus polluting the work of the Baroque master.
I remember the last time I saw the Fontana di Trevi. It was nearly fifteen years ago. My family and I were the only people standing before the fountain.
In spite of the amusement park crowd, I squeezed my way to the edge of the fountain and threw in my coin. Except I did it wrong and had to find another coin to throw in with my right hand over my left shoulder (and not the other way around).
We left the fountain and made our way to Piazza di Spagna, where we sat on the steps and my daughter made eyes at the two men sitting behind us. Evening was setting in, so we decided to find a place to eat. Along the busy streets leading from the Piazza are innumerable trattorias, where a waiter tries his very best to usher you under one of his parasols and onto a seat. A rotund Italian was trying his luck with me, when my mother, who was a few feet behind, called out to me. The waiter, thinking she wanted me to stop at his trattoria, called out, in imitation of my mother: "Fera!" I laughed, and he was pleased, but the reason my mother had stopped me is because she had spotted a terrace hidden in a quiet nook down a short alleyway. This was perfect. Tables with green and white checkered cloths and wicker chairs sat under a leafy canopy, from which lanterns hung.
This is one of the things I love about Rome. What I believe my daughter loves about Rome, is the endless parade of handsome waiters to flirt with. They pinch her cheeks, wink at her, talk to her in Italian, and she grins and laughs, evidently fully enjoying herself.
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