"Beeuuuh!" I was startled. Was the woman sick? Did she have a stomach ache? What was that ugly sound? Almost a burp or a preface to throwing up? I took a step back and hit the corner of the open window. Ouch!! I rubbed my arm.
I was being shown round my new apartment, all 35 square metres of it. A friend had got married and as the flat was too small for a couple had moved into something a little bigger about 100 metres away. It was fine for a person alone so she had thought of me.
I had been of two-minds about it. It was small, rather pokey and a basement flat. It also had a small courtyard, it was near the park and the owners didn't mind my dog.
It was also in one of the more well-to-do areas of the city. Via di Villa Pamphili is one of the main thoroughfares in Monteverde. It is lined by elegant buildings, though sadly, even here, they haven't been spared the attentions of the taggers and graffitti 'artists'.
The bedroom was below ground and against one wall extended a long wardrobe. This was the pokey part of the flat. One step up from it and we were in the kitchen/living room area. It was sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs and basic kitchenette cupboards,an oven and a fridge. Beside the fridge there were three steps onto the small terrace.
I peered out and saw a fruit tree. In the flower bed two cherry tomato plants were growing, one already showing a little shy, early fruit. I noted that the courtyard was covered in gravel, not a blade of grass in sight or even a weed. Someone took care of it.
At the other end of the room, a shallow step led to the bathroom which was where my new landlady and I were.
We were gazing down at the washing machine, a rusty whitish block of unknown brand. My landlady was explaining to me how it worked. She thought I had never used one before.
"This is where the powder goes. If you want, you can put fabric softener here..."
I was happy to have a washing machine. While my previous flat had had the machine in situ, it was broken, and the landlady hadn't been keen on getting it repaired.
"So what does this button do?" I pointed at a knob beside the main temperature selection dial. The symbol on it had, over time and use, been erased. My landlady stooped, perched her glasses on the tip of her thin nose to peer more closely at the button.
There was a longish pause as she surveyed it, followed by "Beuuuuh!", it was an extended guttural sound.
I was startled. She straightened up again, having answered my question and left the room. I looked at the machine again. I guessed I'd just have to experiment.
That was my first encounter with 'boh' albeit in its most inelegant form. My new landlady was just letting me know she had no idea what the button did..
'Boh' is not a real word. It's a sound which conveys the idea of 'I don't know' or 'I don't have the foggiest." And while my landlady chose to modulate it with a long burp-like frequency most people go for a quicker, "boh" before continuing with whatever they are doing, or changing the topic under discussion.
For a while, I used it, probably too much. One day a relative snapped, "Would you stop it?"
"What?"
"That sound. It's really annoying." He was right.
At school students will sometimes answer "boh". A colleague would respond thus: "Bo? Who's Bo? I don't know anyone called Bo. Is he a friend of yours? What's he got to do with the lesson?". He could continue for quite a while along those lines. This was guaranteed to confuse the student and, if they got it, make them drop the noise.
However, as onomatopeic sounds go, it is inoffensive. There are many sounds and interjections, along with accompanying gestures that Italians like to use: mah!, uffa, ah, ahimè, oh,ohi,uh,dai! (daje in Romano), ajò, puah.......
Over time I've learnt to use them, or at the very least not get too annoyed by them.
However there is one sound that really bugs me. I'll put it in context: it's Thursday evening, in class and I say "Turn to page 32 in the student book."
"Eh?!"
"Page 32, please," through gritted teeth as professional smile stays firmly etched on face.
"Eh?!" with accompanying vacant stare and quick glance at neighbours to see what they are doing.
It is rude and lazy.
It can't be that hard to say: "Sorry, I haven't understood. Could you repeat please?" Or maybe it is!
Wednesday 27 July 2016
Sunday 24 July 2016
Light and shadows
Finally the day comes, the start of the holidays which for me, means the end of the school year. It also means five weeks of freedom from timetables.
Even better, I've just finished my last private lesson til September, unless I get the weird emergency that can crop up. Such as: "I'm going to the UK/USA in two weeks, can you help me?" or "I need to do a First Certificate or IELTS or whatever exam in October," this latter usually from a person with an elementary knowledge of English.
I walked out of my student's flat with a feeling of relief. Time for a well-deserved break. She lives in Monteverde, an area I know well. My second flat in Rome from 2000 to 2005, a basement flat was here barely 100 metres from the park of Villa Pamphili.
Most parks in Rome are called Villa 'something or other' (an abbreviation of 'parco di' Villa Borghese, for example).This caused some consternation on my part when I first came to Rome. My students would describe these villas where they had spent their Sunday afternoons: Villa Borghese, Villa Ada and Villa Pamphili, the three most famous and most cited. I would picture a modern style villa with a swimming-pool and an area for snacks and drinks.
Only when I visited Villa Borghese, actually I was visiting the Galleria Borghese, did I realise my mistake.
Again, an area for potential confusion, I would indifferently refer to the park, Villa Borghese, and its truly magnificent museum, Galleria Borghese, using the same moniker. Thus: "the Caravaggio's at Villa Borghese are well-worth a visit," Well, no. As a (I suspect pedantic) person observed, the Caravaggio's were in the Galleria Borghese and not the park. Duh!
Monteverde is on a hill, the name translates as green hill. I headed down towards Via dei Quattro Venti (road of the four winds) which I have been assured, once used to blow at different times of the year throughout Rome. Large blocks of flats were built in the EUR area of the city thus blocking one of these winds, a nice cool summer wind that would strike in the afternoons at around 4 and provide an escape from the relentless heat.
I climbed back up towards via Carini and what would be my bus stop except it had been moved because of some roadwork in progress. A small notice attached to the stop said I needed to walk 100 metres forwards. I did so and found myself at one of the entrances to Villa Sciarra.
Now I had been to Villa Sciarra many years ago when I lived in the area. but, in those days I tended to favour Villa Pamphili, it was bigger and my dog had all her doggy pals there, and it was closer to my flat.
I peered through the gate, it was getting hot already and the gravel glowed white. I saw a fountain (I like fountains) and I forgot about the bus. I was on holiday after all. It was the fountain of the Satyrs (I found this out afterwards), a huge Baroque monstrosity, all satyrs and centaurs and putti.
To my left was a large bird cage and in front of me a large tree-line path, above which and running parallel, was a walkway. It ran alongside the Gianicolense walls which limit the park. I went onto it, it was deserted. The rose bushes were fading in the heat and few flowers remained. I peered through the portcullis gaps in the walls at the palazzi of the wealthy beyond.
The path was shaded and at the end were some steps which led down on to the main alley next to the famed esedra, a semi-circle of statues against a hedge with two small fountains.
A young mother was trying to stop her daughter from climbing over the wooden barrier to enter the esedra, "no, Ellie, there's a barrier you can't go there."
She walked away, the little girl hesitated one leg astride the low barrier. Her mother turned back, "daje, Elisabetta, we're going to see the turtles." This convinced her.
Behind the esedra a van from the commune di Roma was parked and a couple of gardeners were raking the pine needles up.
I walked up to the Villa (Casino Barberini, named after the original owners), a rather plain yellowish building with five 17th century statues atop.Today it is the headquarters for the Italian Institute of Germanic studies (Istituto Italiano di Studi Germanici).
The last owners of the Villa were an American couple, George and Henrietta Wurts neè Towers. George Wurts was keen on gardening and was responsible for the re-creation of the garden as a neo-Baroque wonderland with 17th and 18th century statues and fountains dotted throughout its grounds: they represented the seasons, the passage of time or classical themes such as Apollo and Daphne, Diana and Endymion.
In 1930 on the death of her husband, Henrietta donated the Villa to the State, in those days under the dictatorship of Mussolini, on the condition that it would become a park for the public.
In front of the Villa is the Fountain of Human Passion (Fontana delle Passione Umane) - the four sphinxes represent human passion. Anger has her paw on a skull, Luxury is on a carpet of flowers, Avarice reclines on some money and Greed is on a cornucopia over-flowing with flowers. Her front paw raised as she brings a fruit to her mouth. It is also known as the fountain of sins/vice (vizio).
The two beagles on the rim of the fountain couldn't have cared less about what it represented. Their owner threw a tennis ball into the water among the leaves and algae, neither of the dogs wanted to jump in and the ball floated beyond their owners reach.
As I moved on, I could hear her exortations, "daje!" then see her splashing the water to make the ball float towards the edge when she could pick it up again.
A man was doing yoga, or was he just stretching, next to the statue of Daphne and Apollo?
A faded notice on the dry yellow grass told visitors not to walk on the grass. No one was paying any heed. I entered a covered path and gazed out at the view on to the Castelli Romani, rather hazy due to the heat.
I climbed back up towards a pond along which is the statue off Diana and Endymion.
A labrador-type dog stares up in loving adoration at Diana who seems to be looking back at him. The statue was speckled by the sun light as it filtered down through a tree. Somehow fittingly, a black pointer splashed into the pond and had a swim. His owner pretended not to notice and walked on down the path.
I strode up to the principal entrance. A bus roared past and shuddered to a stop. I glanced up the road at the two heavily armed soldiers guarding the entrance to the headquarters of the American University in Rome. Behind me, a mother shouted at her children to stop splashing the water in the fountain.
The Fontana con satirelli e capretta (satyres with goat) is the first fountain a visitor entering through the principal gate would see,
I remembered the promise of turtles. Where were they?
I also remembered seeing an entrance lower down the hill, on Via Dandolo. I headed downwards, down some uneven steps and rubble-covered paths among the flitting light and shadows of Villa Sciarra. It was a place that was much neglected and had seen greater days.
Even better, I've just finished my last private lesson til September, unless I get the weird emergency that can crop up. Such as: "I'm going to the UK/USA in two weeks, can you help me?" or "I need to do a First Certificate or IELTS or whatever exam in October," this latter usually from a person with an elementary knowledge of English.
I walked out of my student's flat with a feeling of relief. Time for a well-deserved break. She lives in Monteverde, an area I know well. My second flat in Rome from 2000 to 2005, a basement flat was here barely 100 metres from the park of Villa Pamphili.
Most parks in Rome are called Villa 'something or other' (an abbreviation of 'parco di' Villa Borghese, for example).This caused some consternation on my part when I first came to Rome. My students would describe these villas where they had spent their Sunday afternoons: Villa Borghese, Villa Ada and Villa Pamphili, the three most famous and most cited. I would picture a modern style villa with a swimming-pool and an area for snacks and drinks.
Only when I visited Villa Borghese, actually I was visiting the Galleria Borghese, did I realise my mistake.
Again, an area for potential confusion, I would indifferently refer to the park, Villa Borghese, and its truly magnificent museum, Galleria Borghese, using the same moniker. Thus: "the Caravaggio's at Villa Borghese are well-worth a visit," Well, no. As a (I suspect pedantic) person observed, the Caravaggio's were in the Galleria Borghese and not the park. Duh!
Monteverde is on a hill, the name translates as green hill. I headed down towards Via dei Quattro Venti (road of the four winds) which I have been assured, once used to blow at different times of the year throughout Rome. Large blocks of flats were built in the EUR area of the city thus blocking one of these winds, a nice cool summer wind that would strike in the afternoons at around 4 and provide an escape from the relentless heat.
I climbed back up towards via Carini and what would be my bus stop except it had been moved because of some roadwork in progress. A small notice attached to the stop said I needed to walk 100 metres forwards. I did so and found myself at one of the entrances to Villa Sciarra.
Now I had been to Villa Sciarra many years ago when I lived in the area. but, in those days I tended to favour Villa Pamphili, it was bigger and my dog had all her doggy pals there, and it was closer to my flat.
I peered through the gate, it was getting hot already and the gravel glowed white. I saw a fountain (I like fountains) and I forgot about the bus. I was on holiday after all. It was the fountain of the Satyrs (I found this out afterwards), a huge Baroque monstrosity, all satyrs and centaurs and putti.
 |
| Propping up the central basin |
To my left was a large bird cage and in front of me a large tree-line path, above which and running parallel, was a walkway. It ran alongside the Gianicolense walls which limit the park. I went onto it, it was deserted. The rose bushes were fading in the heat and few flowers remained. I peered through the portcullis gaps in the walls at the palazzi of the wealthy beyond.
The path was shaded and at the end were some steps which led down on to the main alley next to the famed esedra, a semi-circle of statues against a hedge with two small fountains.
 |
| Esedra |
She walked away, the little girl hesitated one leg astride the low barrier. Her mother turned back, "daje, Elisabetta, we're going to see the turtles." This convinced her.
Behind the esedra a van from the commune di Roma was parked and a couple of gardeners were raking the pine needles up.
I walked up to the Villa (Casino Barberini, named after the original owners), a rather plain yellowish building with five 17th century statues atop.Today it is the headquarters for the Italian Institute of Germanic studies (Istituto Italiano di Studi Germanici).
The last owners of the Villa were an American couple, George and Henrietta Wurts neè Towers. George Wurts was keen on gardening and was responsible for the re-creation of the garden as a neo-Baroque wonderland with 17th and 18th century statues and fountains dotted throughout its grounds: they represented the seasons, the passage of time or classical themes such as Apollo and Daphne, Diana and Endymion.
 |
| Apollo and Daphne |
In front of the Villa is the Fountain of Human Passion (Fontana delle Passione Umane) - the four sphinxes represent human passion. Anger has her paw on a skull, Luxury is on a carpet of flowers, Avarice reclines on some money and Greed is on a cornucopia over-flowing with flowers. Her front paw raised as she brings a fruit to her mouth. It is also known as the fountain of sins/vice (vizio).
The two beagles on the rim of the fountain couldn't have cared less about what it represented. Their owner threw a tennis ball into the water among the leaves and algae, neither of the dogs wanted to jump in and the ball floated beyond their owners reach.
As I moved on, I could hear her exortations, "daje!" then see her splashing the water to make the ball float towards the edge when she could pick it up again.
 |
| Anger with her paw on a skull |
A man was doing yoga, or was he just stretching, next to the statue of Daphne and Apollo?A faded notice on the dry yellow grass told visitors not to walk on the grass. No one was paying any heed. I entered a covered path and gazed out at the view on to the Castelli Romani, rather hazy due to the heat.
I climbed back up towards a pond along which is the statue off Diana and Endymion.
A labrador-type dog stares up in loving adoration at Diana who seems to be looking back at him. The statue was speckled by the sun light as it filtered down through a tree. Somehow fittingly, a black pointer splashed into the pond and had a swim. His owner pretended not to notice and walked on down the path.
I strode up to the principal entrance. A bus roared past and shuddered to a stop. I glanced up the road at the two heavily armed soldiers guarding the entrance to the headquarters of the American University in Rome. Behind me, a mother shouted at her children to stop splashing the water in the fountain.
I remembered the promise of turtles. Where were they?
I also remembered seeing an entrance lower down the hill, on Via Dandolo. I headed downwards, down some uneven steps and rubble-covered paths among the flitting light and shadows of Villa Sciarra. It was a place that was much neglected and had seen greater days.
 |
| Turtle pond in Villa Sciarra |
Tuesday 19 July 2016
First words: spicci
"Non chee lie speechy," the woman said.
I looked at her, I tried to figure it out. I was paying for food in a supermarket. Behind me snaked a long queue of people waiting to check out. All the tills had similar lines. The aisles were blocked, both with people shopping and queuing. It was 6pm. It seemed as if everyone in the city had decided to get their food at the same time.
The cashier did not seem to want my proffered note. I tried to hand it over.
"Speechy?!" she repeated, more loudly. Maybe she thought I was deaf.
I shook my head, "I'm sorry.."
She didn't let me finish. She snatched my note, the till drawer crashed open and she rummaged through it for my change. She slapped it down in front of me, a coin slid down to the end of the bagging chute. As I was still picking it up, the next person's goods rained onto me.
When living in a foreign country with only a basic knowledge of the language it doesn't take much to get unsettled. In my first weeks there would be daily a new word or a new sound. It is, of course, always a good idea to learn a little before moving abroard.
Shopping for groceries was the first real linguistic challenge. Though even that could be parred down to the minimum if shopping was restricted to large supermarkets. However the area in which I lived Ponte Lungo, almost opposite the train station, at first glance seemed devoid of large supermarkets of the sort I was used to.
There were plenty of small grocery stores, now a dying breed. There I would point at my desired food and having learnt my numbers, stated the quantity. Then I discovered that rather than saying cento grammi (100 grams) the more correct unit of measurement was the etto (un etto, due etti etc....) which was easier to say.
Most of the time, I was cooking for myself and therefore needed small quantites. Maybe 200 grams of 'melanzane sott'olio' (aubergines in olive oil), 300 grams of pesto for my pasta, 100 grams of olives to nibble on after school/work. This could be a problem as for many years my pronunciation of the number three (tre) would often be understood as six (sei). I would ask for tre etti di olive and receive six.
I would practise that pesky R sound and somehow it got misunderstood. In days pre-automatic caller ID on the phone's display this was a problem. I recall one instance when I'd given my number, the woman on the other end repeated it with sixes in the place of threes. After trying several times to correct her I gave up. She never called back.
After a few days in Rome, I decided to explore further than the immediate vicinity of my flat, so I wandered onto the Appia Nuova, a large shopping street with a central area where cars parked beneath rows of umbrella pines all the way up to Porta San Giovanni beyond which was the eponymous Basilica. There I found a supermarket, a SMA (now renamed Simply), it was there I had my first encounter with 'speechy'.
Eventually, rather literally, the penny dropped as that was what they wanted, pennies or rather, cents. The cashiers wanted small change (spicci). Hence the usual question: "Non ce l'hai spicci?" Or else they wanted the exact amount for the purchase. Later , once in-store cash point machines became more diffuse, rather than deal with pesky cash, cashiers would sometimes ask 'haven't you got a Bancomat card."
I learnt not to go shopping at 6pm, the best or, at least, the quietest time is between 2pm and 4pm. I realised that always having some small change was vital, not that it made the various cashiers any friendlier. And if, for some reason I was paying with a banknote, I apologised: "I'm sorry, it's all I have."
I looked at her, I tried to figure it out. I was paying for food in a supermarket. Behind me snaked a long queue of people waiting to check out. All the tills had similar lines. The aisles were blocked, both with people shopping and queuing. It was 6pm. It seemed as if everyone in the city had decided to get their food at the same time.
The cashier did not seem to want my proffered note. I tried to hand it over.
"Speechy?!" she repeated, more loudly. Maybe she thought I was deaf.
I shook my head, "I'm sorry.."
She didn't let me finish. She snatched my note, the till drawer crashed open and she rummaged through it for my change. She slapped it down in front of me, a coin slid down to the end of the bagging chute. As I was still picking it up, the next person's goods rained onto me.
When living in a foreign country with only a basic knowledge of the language it doesn't take much to get unsettled. In my first weeks there would be daily a new word or a new sound. It is, of course, always a good idea to learn a little before moving abroard.
Shopping for groceries was the first real linguistic challenge. Though even that could be parred down to the minimum if shopping was restricted to large supermarkets. However the area in which I lived Ponte Lungo, almost opposite the train station, at first glance seemed devoid of large supermarkets of the sort I was used to.
There were plenty of small grocery stores, now a dying breed. There I would point at my desired food and having learnt my numbers, stated the quantity. Then I discovered that rather than saying cento grammi (100 grams) the more correct unit of measurement was the etto (un etto, due etti etc....) which was easier to say.
Most of the time, I was cooking for myself and therefore needed small quantites. Maybe 200 grams of 'melanzane sott'olio' (aubergines in olive oil), 300 grams of pesto for my pasta, 100 grams of olives to nibble on after school/work. This could be a problem as for many years my pronunciation of the number three (tre) would often be understood as six (sei). I would ask for tre etti di olive and receive six.
I would practise that pesky R sound and somehow it got misunderstood. In days pre-automatic caller ID on the phone's display this was a problem. I recall one instance when I'd given my number, the woman on the other end repeated it with sixes in the place of threes. After trying several times to correct her I gave up. She never called back.
After a few days in Rome, I decided to explore further than the immediate vicinity of my flat, so I wandered onto the Appia Nuova, a large shopping street with a central area where cars parked beneath rows of umbrella pines all the way up to Porta San Giovanni beyond which was the eponymous Basilica. There I found a supermarket, a SMA (now renamed Simply), it was there I had my first encounter with 'speechy'.
Eventually, rather literally, the penny dropped as that was what they wanted, pennies or rather, cents. The cashiers wanted small change (spicci). Hence the usual question: "Non ce l'hai spicci?" Or else they wanted the exact amount for the purchase. Later , once in-store cash point machines became more diffuse, rather than deal with pesky cash, cashiers would sometimes ask 'haven't you got a Bancomat card."
I learnt not to go shopping at 6pm, the best or, at least, the quietest time is between 2pm and 4pm. I realised that always having some small change was vital, not that it made the various cashiers any friendlier. And if, for some reason I was paying with a banknote, I apologised: "I'm sorry, it's all I have."
Wednesday 13 July 2016
A Roman jewel
It was Jayne's first trip to Rome. She was excited. The plane dropped below the clouds and she saw the eternal city for the first time.
A large oval stone structure drew her attention, "What's that? Is it a football stadium?"
Her boyfriend leant over to peer through the window, "No, it's the colosseum."
"What's that?"
Most people have heard of the amphitheatrum Flavium. It was built under the Emperor Vespasian, founder of the Flavian dynasty. Today, he tends to be associated with the street urinals which are named after him, Vespasienne in French and Vespasiano in Italian. But his greatest oeuvre was this massive amphitheatre.
It was completed in 80AD, a year after his death. His son, the Emperor Titus, inaugurated the construction with 100 days of games. These included gladiatorial combats and wild animal fights. It could seat up to 55,000 spectators.
The original structure had three tiers of arched entrances - a total of around 80 supported by semi-circular columns. On each level the columns belonged to a different order: Doric at the bottom, then Ionic and topped by Corinthian.( If you want a description of the differences between the orders go to : http://www.ancient.eu/column/). The amphitheatre was built of granite and tufa faced with travertine.
It later became known as the Colosseum, possibly because of the giant statue of Nero which once stood nearby. It was a symbol of the power and splendour of Imperial Rome.
By the 6th century, there were no more gladiatorial combats or large public performances. However it was still used as a bull ring.
Over the centuries the Colosseum has been shaken by a number of earthquakes, the most damaging of which occurred in1349. It caused the southern side to collapse.
Eventually, the once-great Colosseum was abandoned and fell into decline. It was used as a quarry. Its stones went into building projects for the nearby St John the Lateran, St. Peter's as well as for defence fortifications along the Tiber.
I decided to swing by to see the results of the recently finished facade clean up. The first stage of a very expensive - 25million euros - restoration project funded by, Diego Della Valle, the owner of the luxury leather goods brand, Tod's.
The 31 remaining arches had been cleaned and the moss and algae growing out of the cracks had been brushed away. I had read that in certain lights the delicately brushed travertine glowed a slight pink. In the harsh afternoon light of a hot July day the pink patina was barely visible.
 |
| Pink? |
I had come out of the metro A-line at the stop of San Giovanni rather than the more usual B-line stop of Colosseo, so I approached the structure down the road which connects the Basilica of San Giovanni and the Colosseum, Via San Giovanni in Laterano. It's a narrow road, with narrow uneven pavements. At the height of the Basilica of San Clemente it joins up with this years pilgrim trail.
In the distance, deceivingly further than I had thought at first glance, stood the Colosseum. The sun was hot, I changed sides to walk in the shade.
After 10 minutes, I passed the ruins of the gladiators' changing rooms. There was a Iot to see but no explanatory notices. I could but guess. I could see the entrance to a tunnel, some of the changing rooms, corridors... The whole area was over-grown with weeds, forgotten, here on the other side of the road from the Colosseum it had once serviced. The gladiators would have prepared themselves in this area then run down underground passages and out into the arena to face another gladiator, a tiger, and please the awaiting crowds. This was an area that needed a makeover too.
One of the long green trams rattled past and a bus headed up the hill which held the remains of Nero's golden palace. The road in front of the Colosseum, Via dei Fori Imperiali, has been closed to almost all traffic. On weekdays buses and taxis run down it. But at weekends it is open only to pedestrians and cyclists.
I crossed and followed the pavement down to the base of the Colosseum. I was near the damaged southern side which has been shored up by bricks.
 |
| The Southern wall which was damaged by an earthquake |
I walked around the base, I peered under the arches and tried to catch a glimpse of the central part of the Colosseum.
When I first came to Rome the Colosseum was open to all. In fact, a typical Roman expression goes: "Abiti mica al Colosseo", said when someone leaves a door open. There were no doors to close at the Colosseum. The British equivalent would be "Were you raised in a barn?"
Back then, It was a notorious spot for night time encounters of all sorts. Today the lower arches are closed by huge iron railings and all I could see were queues of tourists. These were quickly explained as I noticed I was near the group entrance, a little further on was the entrance for individuals. I paused to check the price: 12 euros for an adult for the Colosseum and the Palatine hill. I would return.
I glanced up towards the Esquiline hill and an elegant building (palazzo) perched on it. I imagined the incomparable and unique view from its windows. Then wondered if it was one of the buildings involved in the current fixed low rent scandal.
I headed in the direction of the Arch of Constantine. A bride, train in hand, and her groom overtook me, followed by three garishly-red clad bridesmaids and a photographer with tripod. They were getting that all-important wedding day shot with Colosseum backdrop.
Back then, It was a notorious spot for night time encounters of all sorts. Today the lower arches are closed by huge iron railings and all I could see were queues of tourists. These were quickly explained as I noticed I was near the group entrance, a little further on was the entrance for individuals. I paused to check the price: 12 euros for an adult for the Colosseum and the Palatine hill. I would return.
 |
| A police car patrols, tourists watch down from the second tier. |
I headed in the direction of the Arch of Constantine. A bride, train in hand, and her groom overtook me, followed by three garishly-red clad bridesmaids and a photographer with tripod. They were getting that all-important wedding day shot with Colosseum backdrop.
 |
| The triumphal arch of Constantine. |
In the future, and provided the 15 metre deep foundations can hold it, the floor would be replaced with one that could support modern day entertainment. The Minister for Culture, Dario Franceschini has said events of the 'highest quality' would be staged at the Colosseum.
Thursday 7 July 2016
First words: straniera
It was serious I had been summoned. My landlady had to speak to me. I was a little worried. My Italian wasn't brilliant and my landlady spoke fast in between puffs on her cigarette. I entered her office. She and her husband owned a shop which was furnished with a small desk and a large TV. In the corner was a pile of, what to my untrained eye, was scrap metal and some tank-shaped objects.
If you had a problem with a gas boiler her husband could fix it, that much I knew. The shop was above my basement flat, (this was my second flat in Rome, my first alone) which meant that I could never avoid either her or her husband at any given time of the day as walking to the flat from the bus stop involved walking in front of the large glass window and usually open door. If her husband was there he could be found reclining in his chair, feet up on the table, watching some kind of talk show or soap, hidden in his natural breathing atmosphere of a thick cloud of smoke. The wife was sterner, more rigid and was usually at the desk on the phone puffing away as if she were a contestant in some kind of smokers' Olympics. Most of the time I dealt with her husband.
I walked up the steps into the office. She told me to shut the door. I did. I wondered if she was going to tell me I had to move out, or try to up the rent again.
"I need to talk to you about those people who were in your flat whilst you were on holiday. We do not want those kind of people in the building," were her greeting words as I sat in the chair opposite her. I was trying to follow her words, concentrating. Too slow in my answer, she continued, "they made too much noise, had loud parties and left a mess in the courtyard. The neighbours don't want people like that near their homes."
People like that? I protested, "What? My brother and his girlfriend!? They were animal sitting for me." It had been a convenient arrangement, I'd gone on holiday to Spain with a friend and they had come down from the cold North for a Roman holiday.
Besides, what was she talking about? Parties? My brother didn't know anyone in Rome.
She continued, "my husband had to come out at night, at night! ... to see what they were doing... he managed to convince the neighbours not to call the police..."
I was gobsmacked, not so much by the news that my neighbour was at the origin of the complaint, but at my landlady's attitude: "those people?", "all those foreigners?" My continued silence, I really didn't know what to say, prompted her final salvo: "never let people like that into the flat again." A wave of her hand followed with a final "you can go now." Her gaze turned towards the TV in the corner as she reached for the remote control.
The crux of the problem, in this case, was my neighbour. She had disliked me on sight. Her first words as I had come across her in the stairwell were: "Don't let the dog into the courtyard." Before I could answer, even introduce myself, she'd disappeared into her flat.
Later, she took to shaking her tablecloth over my terrace, often over my just-washed clothes that were drying there. And there was also her little habit of going to my landlady with whom she had a cordial relationship, and make up stories about what I was doing. Her dislike stemmed from the fact that I was a foreigner (and I had a dog).
Moving to another country, of course, meant adapting to different ways of doing things. For the most part they were little things such as shop opening times (small shops mean big lunch breaks), queueing rules (or not), food habits (absolutely no cappucino after 11am, and most certainly not after lunch or dinner).
It also meant getting used to the people, fellow Europeans so surely not that different, and how they communicated. Hand gestures, here, constituted a whole new and fun language to learn. Eventually I too started punctuating my words with demonstrative hand gestures. I'd cracked it, I'd gone native. Well, almost.
After a few years I began to think of Italy and Rome as my home. A sense of relief accompanied the moment the plane touched down. The background sound of people chatting was now as comprehensible as my native languages.
So it always came as a slap in the face when every now and again the words: "lei é straniera," were shot back at me as conclusive proof that I couldn't understand, whatever the issue might be. No amount of protesting, no amount of years, 10, 12, 15.... years, could ever erase the fact that in their eyes I was forever a foreigner. "No, veramente. Lei non puo capire." (no, really you can't get it).
What I couldn't understand ranged from the fairly trivial such as the above cappuccino rule (there actually is a logical explanation for it), to the amazement at the content of some TV programs, to pasta rules (I'll explain some other time), to the illogical, often incomprehensible bureaucracy, to the tortuous Byzantine legal system..... If I didn't understand, it was because I was a foreigner.
I wasn't the only one who experienced this continued feeling of dismay. I have a colleague who has been married to a Sicilian for over thirty years every time she goes to see her relatives in Sicily they call her 'la straniera' and in family conversations her husband is referred to as the one who married 'la straniera.'
Another friend lamented on a social networking site: Will I ever not be a 'straniera?' Yet another likes to think of it as almost a term of endearment as she makes her rounds of her local market. "It's rather sweet really."
After all, who could dispute the facts we were not born here.
If you had a problem with a gas boiler her husband could fix it, that much I knew. The shop was above my basement flat, (this was my second flat in Rome, my first alone) which meant that I could never avoid either her or her husband at any given time of the day as walking to the flat from the bus stop involved walking in front of the large glass window and usually open door. If her husband was there he could be found reclining in his chair, feet up on the table, watching some kind of talk show or soap, hidden in his natural breathing atmosphere of a thick cloud of smoke. The wife was sterner, more rigid and was usually at the desk on the phone puffing away as if she were a contestant in some kind of smokers' Olympics. Most of the time I dealt with her husband.
I walked up the steps into the office. She told me to shut the door. I did. I wondered if she was going to tell me I had to move out, or try to up the rent again.
"I need to talk to you about those people who were in your flat whilst you were on holiday. We do not want those kind of people in the building," were her greeting words as I sat in the chair opposite her. I was trying to follow her words, concentrating. Too slow in my answer, she continued, "they made too much noise, had loud parties and left a mess in the courtyard. The neighbours don't want people like that near their homes."
People like that? I protested, "What? My brother and his girlfriend!? They were animal sitting for me." It had been a convenient arrangement, I'd gone on holiday to Spain with a friend and they had come down from the cold North for a Roman holiday.
Besides, what was she talking about? Parties? My brother didn't know anyone in Rome.
She continued, "my husband had to come out at night, at night! ... to see what they were doing... he managed to convince the neighbours not to call the police..."
I was gobsmacked, not so much by the news that my neighbour was at the origin of the complaint, but at my landlady's attitude: "those people?", "all those foreigners?" My continued silence, I really didn't know what to say, prompted her final salvo: "never let people like that into the flat again." A wave of her hand followed with a final "you can go now." Her gaze turned towards the TV in the corner as she reached for the remote control.
The crux of the problem, in this case, was my neighbour. She had disliked me on sight. Her first words as I had come across her in the stairwell were: "Don't let the dog into the courtyard." Before I could answer, even introduce myself, she'd disappeared into her flat.
Later, she took to shaking her tablecloth over my terrace, often over my just-washed clothes that were drying there. And there was also her little habit of going to my landlady with whom she had a cordial relationship, and make up stories about what I was doing. Her dislike stemmed from the fact that I was a foreigner (and I had a dog).
Moving to another country, of course, meant adapting to different ways of doing things. For the most part they were little things such as shop opening times (small shops mean big lunch breaks), queueing rules (or not), food habits (absolutely no cappucino after 11am, and most certainly not after lunch or dinner).
It also meant getting used to the people, fellow Europeans so surely not that different, and how they communicated. Hand gestures, here, constituted a whole new and fun language to learn. Eventually I too started punctuating my words with demonstrative hand gestures. I'd cracked it, I'd gone native. Well, almost.
After a few years I began to think of Italy and Rome as my home. A sense of relief accompanied the moment the plane touched down. The background sound of people chatting was now as comprehensible as my native languages.
So it always came as a slap in the face when every now and again the words: "lei é straniera," were shot back at me as conclusive proof that I couldn't understand, whatever the issue might be. No amount of protesting, no amount of years, 10, 12, 15.... years, could ever erase the fact that in their eyes I was forever a foreigner. "No, veramente. Lei non puo capire." (no, really you can't get it).
What I couldn't understand ranged from the fairly trivial such as the above cappuccino rule (there actually is a logical explanation for it), to the amazement at the content of some TV programs, to pasta rules (I'll explain some other time), to the illogical, often incomprehensible bureaucracy, to the tortuous Byzantine legal system..... If I didn't understand, it was because I was a foreigner.
I wasn't the only one who experienced this continued feeling of dismay. I have a colleague who has been married to a Sicilian for over thirty years every time she goes to see her relatives in Sicily they call her 'la straniera' and in family conversations her husband is referred to as the one who married 'la straniera.'
Another friend lamented on a social networking site: Will I ever not be a 'straniera?' Yet another likes to think of it as almost a term of endearment as she makes her rounds of her local market. "It's rather sweet really."
After all, who could dispute the facts we were not born here.
Saturday 2 July 2016
Of aqueducts and sheep
The results had come in and I was stunned. The English had voted to Leave the EU. StilI trying to process the information I decided to take time out. I also had a couple of free hours that needed killing.
I ignored the fact that the temperature was somewhere in the mid-thirties celsius and that I wasn't really in the best of shape for a walk following a mild leg injury.
I walked to the end of the road away from the busy junction which leads on one side to the Castelli Romani towns, on the other into the heart of the Tuscolano and beyond that into the historical centre of Rome.
I entered the park of the aqueducts, a 240 hectare park which is one of the distinct features of the lower Tuscolano region.
The park's usual approach is from Via Lemonia, a road that runs parallel to the park, from the end of the Circonvallazione Tuscolana as far as the Church of San Policarpo. The metro stops of Lucio Sestio, Giulio Agricola and Subaugusta all bring visitors within walking distance of the park.
The park was already getting its desiccated summer look: yellowing blades of grass and a mantle of fallen pine cones and needles. There weren't many people about: some runners in their Lycra shorts, a few barely clad people sunbathing in the dust or on top of one aqueduct, some camera carrying tourists...
I followed a dusty path to the first of the three important aqueducts in the park. This was the aqueduct of the Acqua Marcia. It was built in 144bc. Its name came from that of the Republican praetor, Quintus Marcius Rex, who built it on orders of the senate. It cost 180 million sesterces, which would be about 350 million Euro today.
It was an ambitious project but the ancient Romans were master engineers. The aqueduct ran from the Aniene valley all the way to the Capitol Hill in the centre of Rome, with 9kms of arches out in the open for all to admire. It provided water for the baths of Caracalla and the baths of Diocletian.
Pliny the Elder in his 'Naturalis Historia' said "The first prize for the coolest and most wholesome water in the whole world has been awarded by the voice of Rome to the Acqua Marcia, one of the gods' gifts to our city."
Today the lower parts of these arches are buried in the ground, weeds and bushes grow close up to them. At regular intervals there are rusty steps to help visitors climb onto the aqueduct, over and deeper into the park, to face the more stunning and dramatic view of the Acqua Claudia.
In the summer, sunbathers drape their towels on the baking top of the Acqua Marcia and roast away. Indeed, as I climbed over I could see two happily baking bodies, and hoped at the very least that they'd remembered to put on sun cream and did not belong to the brigade of people who claim, "my skin never burns, I never need sun cream."
About 20 metres away there was a herd of sheep munching on the dry fronds of grass. I had heard of the fierce sheep dogs in the park, large Tuscan Maremma dogs. They were a worry, I had been told for joggers, but maybe because of the heat, there were no dogs.Two elderly shepherds, one sheltering from the sun beneath an umbrella which at times alternated as a sheep prod, were herding the creatures.
I watched the sheep for a while then walked towards the huge arches of the Acqua Claudia. I could see a group of tatooed young men drinking beer in the shade of an arch. I avoided them. A couple strolled past. Beyond the arches was the fenced off area of a private golf club and its training runs, so very green and orderly compared to the parched park.
The Acqua Claudia began construction under Caligula in 38A.D and was finished under Claudius, hence its name, in 52 A.D. It flows a distance of 68kms from the town of Subiaco most of it underground but with 15kms above ground.
Under the Emperor Nero, it fed a secondary aqueduct which supplied water to the ninfeo and great lake of Nero's Golden Palace.
The Acqua Claudia provided water to all 14 Roman districts. It was a solid and durable construction as the concrete used to build it had been mixed with volcanic ash.
I ambled away from the aqueduct towards a pond. I paused to watch a newly-wed couple climb onto a trunk for their wedding photos with aqueduct back-drop. It would indeed make the day memorable if either of them slipped off.
The pond,and the stream leading away from it, are meant to be protected natural areas, or so say the signs. Despite this there were a number of dogs having a refreshing dip.
I followed the banks of the stream and read the small notices appended to some trees: Olmo, Salice,Pioppo (elm,willow, poplar )...
My slow, meandering walk was interrupted by the sound of bells approaching. It was the herd of sheep again. They lined up along the banks of the stream to sip the crystal clear waters.
In the distance I could see the bell tower of the modern (sixties-built) Church of San Policarpo. My walk was almost over.
I passed under a shallow arch of yet another aqueduct: the Acquedotto Felice. This was a more recent construction, built between 1585 and 1587 under Pope Sesto V ( real name Felice Peretti), nicknamed 'er papa tosto' (the tough Pope) by the poet G.G.Belli.
The Acquedotto Felice is still operational today . It had been built to serve the Viminale and Quirinale hills and the Papal residence of Villa Peretti- Montalto.
I didn't have any water and unlike the sheep who could sip from the 'happy' water I was beginning to feel dehydrated.
Earlier near the Acqua Marcia there had been a drinking fountain, a strong refreshing gush of clear water which had inspired a father and his two young children to wade into it to cool off in blatant disregard of the notice which threatened a fine to people caught doing so.
Back on the deserted street, I headed off in the direction of the underground with thoughts of a nice cool shower propelling me on. My left leg was aching again.
I ignored the fact that the temperature was somewhere in the mid-thirties celsius and that I wasn't really in the best of shape for a walk following a mild leg injury.
I walked to the end of the road away from the busy junction which leads on one side to the Castelli Romani towns, on the other into the heart of the Tuscolano and beyond that into the historical centre of Rome.
I entered the park of the aqueducts, a 240 hectare park which is one of the distinct features of the lower Tuscolano region.
The park's usual approach is from Via Lemonia, a road that runs parallel to the park, from the end of the Circonvallazione Tuscolana as far as the Church of San Policarpo. The metro stops of Lucio Sestio, Giulio Agricola and Subaugusta all bring visitors within walking distance of the park.
The park was already getting its desiccated summer look: yellowing blades of grass and a mantle of fallen pine cones and needles. There weren't many people about: some runners in their Lycra shorts, a few barely clad people sunbathing in the dust or on top of one aqueduct, some camera carrying tourists...
I followed a dusty path to the first of the three important aqueducts in the park. This was the aqueduct of the Acqua Marcia. It was built in 144bc. Its name came from that of the Republican praetor, Quintus Marcius Rex, who built it on orders of the senate. It cost 180 million sesterces, which would be about 350 million Euro today.
It was an ambitious project but the ancient Romans were master engineers. The aqueduct ran from the Aniene valley all the way to the Capitol Hill in the centre of Rome, with 9kms of arches out in the open for all to admire. It provided water for the baths of Caracalla and the baths of Diocletian.
Pliny the Elder in his 'Naturalis Historia' said "The first prize for the coolest and most wholesome water in the whole world has been awarded by the voice of Rome to the Acqua Marcia, one of the gods' gifts to our city."
 |
| Sheep and the Acqua Marcia |
Today the lower parts of these arches are buried in the ground, weeds and bushes grow close up to them. At regular intervals there are rusty steps to help visitors climb onto the aqueduct, over and deeper into the park, to face the more stunning and dramatic view of the Acqua Claudia.
In the summer, sunbathers drape their towels on the baking top of the Acqua Marcia and roast away. Indeed, as I climbed over I could see two happily baking bodies, and hoped at the very least that they'd remembered to put on sun cream and did not belong to the brigade of people who claim, "my skin never burns, I never need sun cream."
About 20 metres away there was a herd of sheep munching on the dry fronds of grass. I had heard of the fierce sheep dogs in the park, large Tuscan Maremma dogs. They were a worry, I had been told for joggers, but maybe because of the heat, there were no dogs.Two elderly shepherds, one sheltering from the sun beneath an umbrella which at times alternated as a sheep prod, were herding the creatures.
I watched the sheep for a while then walked towards the huge arches of the Acqua Claudia. I could see a group of tatooed young men drinking beer in the shade of an arch. I avoided them. A couple strolled past. Beyond the arches was the fenced off area of a private golf club and its training runs, so very green and orderly compared to the parched park.
 |
| The Acqua Claudia |
The Acqua Claudia began construction under Caligula in 38A.D and was finished under Claudius, hence its name, in 52 A.D. It flows a distance of 68kms from the town of Subiaco most of it underground but with 15kms above ground.
Under the Emperor Nero, it fed a secondary aqueduct which supplied water to the ninfeo and great lake of Nero's Golden Palace.
The Acqua Claudia provided water to all 14 Roman districts. It was a solid and durable construction as the concrete used to build it had been mixed with volcanic ash.
 |
| View of umbrella pines through an arch of the Acqua Claudia |
I ambled away from the aqueduct towards a pond. I paused to watch a newly-wed couple climb onto a trunk for their wedding photos with aqueduct back-drop. It would indeed make the day memorable if either of them slipped off.
The pond,and the stream leading away from it, are meant to be protected natural areas, or so say the signs. Despite this there were a number of dogs having a refreshing dip.
 |
| Dog bathing in the laghetto |
I followed the banks of the stream and read the small notices appended to some trees: Olmo, Salice,Pioppo (elm,willow, poplar )...
My slow, meandering walk was interrupted by the sound of bells approaching. It was the herd of sheep again. They lined up along the banks of the stream to sip the crystal clear waters.
 |
| Sheep lining up to drink some 'happy' water with the remains of the aqueduct of the Acqua Felice. |
I passed under a shallow arch of yet another aqueduct: the Acquedotto Felice. This was a more recent construction, built between 1585 and 1587 under Pope Sesto V ( real name Felice Peretti), nicknamed 'er papa tosto' (the tough Pope) by the poet G.G.Belli.
 |
| An arch of the Acquedotto Felice |
 |
| The church of San Policarpo through the trees and the Acquedotto Felice |
The Acquedotto Felice is still operational today . It had been built to serve the Viminale and Quirinale hills and the Papal residence of Villa Peretti- Montalto.
I didn't have any water and unlike the sheep who could sip from the 'happy' water I was beginning to feel dehydrated.
Earlier near the Acqua Marcia there had been a drinking fountain, a strong refreshing gush of clear water which had inspired a father and his two young children to wade into it to cool off in blatant disregard of the notice which threatened a fine to people caught doing so.
Back on the deserted street, I headed off in the direction of the underground with thoughts of a nice cool shower propelling me on. My left leg was aching again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)