First words: straniere

In 1998, the year I came to Italy the world was a different place. All European countries had a different currency and all Italians were millionaires .Their currency was the lire.  My first pay check was over a million. It sounded great. In those days the internet was still more talked about than a household reality. Romano Prodi was Prime Minister (his first stab at the position) and Scalfaro was President of the Repubblic.

I arrived in Rome on a hot July day. I was going to take part in a teacher training course, and had got a room in a flat through the course organisers. I already had some teaching experience but knew that getting something called a 'CELTA' would help me find future work more easily. 

The flat was in an area called Ponte Lungo, on the outer edge of the concrete jungle that extends along the Via Tuscolana towards Cinecitta. I got to the flat, sweat-soaked from having dragged my suitcase the wrong way around the block of flats. Had I done a left rather than a right turn on exiting the station I'd only have had a 50 metres walk. 

During the hasty interview with the landlady's daughter, Sabrina, new-born son balanced on her hip, it became clear that mosquitoes were a problem. My newly-acquired flatmate and I were punctuating our sentences by slaps on various parts of the body and waving hand gestures as we tried to get the nasty creatures to shift.

We didn't know it yet, but we were up against the tiger mosquitoes. We had to do something about them. As soon as Sabrina left, having pocketed the rent, "cash only please", we decided to go and get some mosquito repellent.

 Little did we know that going shopping at three thirty on a Saturday afternoon was ill-advised. We had both come from countries where day-long opening hours were the norm and the lunch break had been phased out years ago. It never occurred to us that shops would be closed.

We stepped out of the building into the blinding heat of the afternoon.There wasn't much traffic and we were the only people out on the streets. All windows were shuttered, it looked as if the whole city was away on holiday.

There was a small piazza to our right with, barely visible under a portico, some shop awnings. We crossed the dusty, deserted piazza and realised all the shops were closed. I noted a gelateria/pasticceria (ice-cream and pastry shop) for future investigation

The larger road that led off the piazza looked the most promising for what we needed. We found a small supermarket its windows were plastered in promotional posters and flyers advertising the offers of the week.

 The cool air inside was soothing after the heat outside. We searched for a product that would nuke those vicious mosquitoes. It was also an opportunity for a quick shop as neither of us had brought any food other than leftover snacks from our respective flights into Rome, hers from London and mine from Brussels. It was an opportunity to test a few words of Italian on the locals.

My new flatmate, Sally, a large Australian, had had the foresight of doing a short Italian language course before coming out to Rome. I had vague school memories of it.

As we traipsed the narrow aisles and rounded stacks of cans or boxes I became aware that we were attracting attention. Or rather Sally was, tall and busty, she stood a head above the others in the shop who I noted were all elderly women.They stared at us, there was nothing subtle about it. I heard a sound, an sss. Sibilant. Were they hissing at us? Why?
They weren't.

"Let's get out of here," Sally was feeling uncomfortable.  

The old women in their large apron-like light-coton dresses were nodding at each other. These new-comers in their supermarket were 'sss...', and they said a word. Sally identified it for me. It was straniere. We were foreigners. We had been labelled. 

It was a word I would get to know well over the years - an umbrella excuse that was thrown at me whenever I failed to understand a transaction: "Ah si! Ma lei è straniera." (Ah yes! But you're a foreigner.)

   

A walk on the Appia Antica

It has been said over and again that all roads lead to Rome. Maybe. The old roads of the Ancient Roman Empire are still there, radiating out of the city like the spokes of a wheel: the Aurelia, the Appia, the Salaria, the Flaminia and the Emilia.

The roads of Rome are important. They give the city its identity. They are a reminder of its tremendous past. Nowadays the grand old roads are frequently clogged up with traffic, at certain times of the day edging forwards at a snail's pace. At night, they give way to a different kind of traffic, the kind that stops to consider the merchandise before, either stopping to effect a transaction, or moving on.

Most of the ancient roads have modern counterparts running parrallel. Hence the Appia Nuova runs close by the Appia Antica, the better to preserve the latter's status as an open air museum. In turn the Appia Nuova assists the Via Tuscolana in shouldering the burden of traffic as all three roads head in the direction of the Colli Albani and the suburbs of Ciampino, served by an airport for low cost flights, and Morena, a residential neighbourhood bordered by large, ugly shopping complexes.

It's Sunday. The citizens of this great city are gathering at schools turned into voting posts. They are electing the new mayor today. The candidates are a woman, Virginia Raggi, of the 5 Stelle Movement and Roberto Giachetti, a proponent of the Partito Democratico,  the PD. Word on the street is that whoever gets elected won't last more than two years.

I can't vote so I'm going to the Appia Antica, the ancient Appian Way, I head up the road of the seven churches (Via delle Sette Chiese), and it really does have seven churches. It's a favourite with pilgrims.

Once you've passed the entrance to the Catacombs of San Callisto, that is,  if you're on a bike or (as I am) on foot, you reach a fork in the road. The left hand one is the continuation of the Via delle Sette Chiese whereas the right hand one is the Via Ardeatina.

So bear to the left, and if it's early summer, enter a verdant tunnel (it turns dry yellow as under the harsh sun the greenery withers). The road is one way, in your face, and cars rush up towards you at a startling speed, it may be that it seems fast because the road is so narrow. Lizards dart up the sides and hide in the foliage.

 At the end of the Via delle Sette Chiese is the Appia Antica with the under-whelming church of San Sebastiano. I rarely stop here other than to let my dog have a drink at the fountain. Many Romans D.O.P (ie the real McCoy) like to get married here, and as I go past I notice there's a wedding in progress.

I walk past the Circus of Maxentius and up a small hill to the tomb of Cecilia Mettela, a small scale version of the far more impressive, Castel St. Angelo in the centre of Rome, the burial mound of the architect-Emperor Hadrian.

 Yet, I've discovered that this mausoleum is the 22nd most visited site in Italy(according toWikipedia). As to who the woman was? The wife and daughter of Roman generals - the greatness of the monument celebrated the greatness of the family rather than being a testimony to the woman (or to love as has been suggested - a Roman version of the Taj Mahal) who once was buried inside.

Circus of Maxentius

Tomb of Cecilia Metella

 Opposite the tomb of Cecilia Metella are the ruins of the ancient Gothic church of San Nicola.

Church of San Nicola at Capo di Bove

 Personally, if I were to get married this is the place I'd choose, not the prestigious but dull San Sebastiano. Or to quote a friend : "it's so romantic." The fact that it is open to the elements plus the smell of flowers in Spring and the back ground squawking of the large grey-green parrots that have colonised the area all combine to create the perfect setting for the big day. It's also deconsecrated. Maybe not then.

Detail at the ancient site of Capo di Bove

 Further on I pass the remains of Roman baths at Capo di Bove, it means bulls head. For more information:  www.ezrome.it/roma-da-vedere/luoghi-poco-noti/1302-una-sorpresa-sullappia-antica-villa-capo-di-bove

This time I don't go in.The villa and grounds are worth a visit but I've seen them before. The dark clouds ahead could be a summer storm on the way. And when summer storms hit, they can hit hard. The umbrella pines bend under strong gusts and large wet raindrops turn to nuggets of hail. This time I'm wrong, the sky darkens but as I head homewards clears again.

The Appia Antica once stretched as far South as Brindisi and was known as 'the queen of the long roads.'

One of  its most infamous moment came when along its sides were crucified the members of Spartacus' slave army (in the third servile war).  After the defeat in 71BC, 6,000 rebel slaves met their death here, the bodies stretched from Rome all the way to Capua.

Appia Antica with the old Roman stones

Today the road is part of the Appian Way Regional Park, www.parcoappiaantica.it  ,while talked about since Napoleonic times, it only came into existence in 1988. It extends over 3,400 hectares, most of which are within the province of Rome though extending as far as the cities of Ciampino and Marino at the foot of the Alban hills. A large part of the park is privately owned.

In 2002 a wooded area known  as Tor Marancia, over the Via Ardeatina, was purchased and added to the Park.

On the way home we stop outside the church of San Sebastiano. The wedding is over and I watch some elegantly dressed guests totter on the cobbles in their high-heels.

If you come for a walk here sensible shoes, trainers or flats, are a must. The road surface is uneven, cobbled and in the parts covered by the ancient stones full of unexpected holes and gulleys. The pine needles that fall off the trees make the going slippery.

Later, I find out who the new mayor is: a victory for women in a country, she says in her maiden speech,  where women are under-represented in the institutions.

 She's right. I just hope she can get on with her job. She has vowed to work for the Romans, to clean up the public transport system, make the rubbish collection service more efficient and, above all, eradicate all taint of corruption from public offices. Good luck to her.

First words: sciopero

There's another transport strike today.  It doesn't bother me.  Besides they are striking at such an odd time from eight thirty pm to half past midnight. Most people will be home by then. A lot will be in front of their TVs as Italy plays Belgium tonight in the European Championship. 

 My students find it hard to believe that one of the first Italian words I learnt was 'sciopero'. It means strike.

I can still remember the day, back in 1998, I'd been in Italy a couple of weeks and was doing a teacher training course. I was sharing an apartment off the Via Tuscolana in an area called Ponte Lungo. It was convenient, well-served by both buses and underground, with direct access to the city centre.

The flat was functional, apart for the broken washing machine, and had a handily placed small (couldn't swing a cat, as the expression goes) grocery store at its foot where we (flatmate and I) could buy staples such as pasta, tomato sauce and huge bottles of cheap Frascati wine. What more could we want? Well, large balls of milky mozzarella. It had those too.

In the mornings, we'd sip our coffees on the tiny balcony that overlooked a vast bus depot, we ignored the clouds of diesel that puffed out of its open windows or the sighing hydraulics of the buses resting between shifts, and thought of the day ahead. 

Coffee over, we sauntered up to the metro station and halted as we faced a padlocked metal gate. Slightly askewer affixed to it was a sign "Sciopero." Followed by numbers, the strike schedule: "Dalle 8.30 alle 17.00. Dalle 20.00 a fine servizio (end of service)." And then letters, abbreviations, which affirmed which trade unions were participating in the strike action, not that we undersood them then.

What the......?

We regarded the sign. The metro was obviously non-functioning. I wondered how the word was pronounced: was it 'chi' sound or an 'sss' sound or was it hard like a 'k'? My flatmate pulled out her map and considered how we would reach our destination. The school was only two stops up the line at Manzoni, and as we discovered to our surprise, a bare twenty minutes rapid walking away. Metro stops are very close together, bus stops even closer. Romans don't like to walk.

It was to be the first of many. Strikes are called monthly and tend to fall either on a Monday or a Friday.

Hence accusations from irate commuters that the bus and metro drivers are giving themselves a long weekend. This overlooks the fact that many public transport workers have weekend shifts. 

According to Italian law even during a strike there must be a guaranteed minimal service (about 30% of the regular service). So if you wait long enough a bus will come along, usually packed to the rafters full of angry passengers. 

Nowadays, I check out which trade union is striking. CGIL and ATAC are bad news as they close down the underground, others such as CoBAS may only lead to a slow down which commuters rarely notice. Regular service itself is fairly unreliable, timetables are rarely respected, long waits are the norm.

 Then I plan my trip into work. This usually involves a lot of walking, so I put on some comfy shoes or trainers, alongside the busy Via Tuscolana. In a couple of cases I've walked the full ten kilometres across the Caffarella park to Largo Colli Albani and onwards. More often I try and catch a passing bus along the way, provided it's not too full. 

Taxis on strike days are difficult to get, as the operators invariably point out: "There's a strike, Signora, everyone wants a taxi," before hanging up. There's also a shortage of taxis.

Tonight's planned strike has raised more than a few eyebrows. People, notably the Mayor candidate Giachetti, have commented on the 'coincidence' and how 'surprising' it was that  a trade union should decide to strike at the same time as the National team first match in the Euro 2016.

The trade union in question (Ugl, one of the less scary ones) has defended its choice of timing by saying it had nothing to do with the football match but rather with the fact that, as so many people would be at home (watching the match), the strike would not be very disruptive.

So why strike? 

I will be at home with my football match pie out of the oven (got the idea off a popular food website), a beer in my hand and my feet up on the sofa. The TV will tuned in to the match, playing on RAI 1. My only problem being that my TV still needs tuning, I 'lost' the digital signal a few months ago. The quality of TV here being what it is, I haven't got round to fixing it. Nevermind I've got a few hours to figure it out. If I can't, I will go and watch the match at the pub. 

Can't. There's a strike! 

 

The Tuscolano - off the tourist track.

I'm sitting at my computer in this run down old  building. The facade has been renovated so some of the crumbling plaster has vanished.  Exams are over and a lot of the work is drying up as the Summer break looms ever closer. 

This is an unusual neighbourhood, or as they say here in Rome 'quartiere'. The Tuscolano, it extends from outside the ancient city gates beyond  the Basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano (St. John the Lateran) to the foothills of the Colli Albani. It is crossed by one of the cities principal arteries: the Via Tuscolana, from which the area derives its name.

 From where my place of work is situated, on one side, there is  the famed Park of the Acqueducts (setting of many a Spaghetti Western, when they weren't filming in Spain) a prosperous residential area with well-tended buildings some with large wrap-around deck-like balconies adorned with orange or lemon trees and lavish barbecues. Outside these buildings stand the custodian shelters known as 'Guardiola', though some are empty. Their custodians have retired and not been replaced. 

Some of the buildings have palm-lined or shrub-lined alleys leading up to their doorways. There's a calm feeling of opulence to these roads that border the park. The people who live here are not feeling the pinch of the recession.

The large park with its imposing arches dominates the area. Swarms of parrots can be heard squawking up in the umbrella pines. In this season, birds chirp and sing from the various bushes while crows perch ominously close to nests with an eye out to the opportunity of an easy meal.

On the other side, past the metro station, over  the Via Tuscolana is one of the most built up and populated areas -14,371 inhabitants per square kilometre -  in Europe. It's a grid of streets where dull grey tower blocks face other dull brown tower blocks, all packed together and intersected by traffic-choked streets and alleyways. The wealth that was so evident a bare 500 metres away, on the other side of the artery that splits the area, has disappeared.  

The balconies are adorned with clothes driers, heavily loaded with the daily washing. Some of the canopies, used to protect balconies from the sun, have cracked with age, or become  jaundiced from the sun. There are fewer flowers to be seen. The balcony here is a practical space: to dry the clothes and hold household utensils, usually in a plastic utilitarian cupboard. 

 As space inside flats is limited, families of four or five crammed into 65 square metres, a few of the balconies sport washing machines, at least two of them running at about any time of the day. 

Not many people would use their balconies for a meal on a Spring night or for sunbathing in the Summer, should the sun even reach their floor.  In the Summer shutters are down and the sun is shunned, in the city. On the beach it's another thing altogether.

There are few parks or green areas on this side of the Tuscolana, though many streets are tree-lined, their roots growing out of the pavements or pushing up the tarmac, just adding to a general sense of disorder. Rubbish overflows from the dumpsters and what can be, has been pulled apart and shredded by pigeons, crows and gulls.

 It's loud and hectic as daily, drivers honk their horns, people shout at an imagined (or real slight) and street hawkers especially along the busy Via Tuscolana try to sell their wares.

 A walk along the Via Tuscolana, is a walk alongside a steady, at times, not-so-steady stream of traffic. From Porta Furba, just past the ancient city walls to where the road leaves the city and heads towards the Alban hills, all you get are cars, lorries, buses and the Roman staple of motorbikes, jostling for space and trying to out do each other before they have to grind to a holt at the next traffic light or pedestrian crossing.
And sometimes they don't. The sound of metal crashing into metal, or worse, the dull thud of a pedestrian being knocked over, are all too frequent occurences.

The Tuscolano area is far from the postcard perfect prettiness of the Fori Imperiali and the Colosseum, far from where the tourists would venture. If they did, they'd probably not want to return.