In the soup

"So who's making the trifle?" It was decision time for the Christmas party. No one was willing to make the trifle. Excuses flowed. "I'm already making a cake." "I can't do it. It always comes out wrong." "It's an English thing, I wouldn't know how to make it." There were a few half-hearted looks at recipes online. Some aghast observations, "alcohol, cake and jelly? In just one dish?" In the end no one made the trifle. It was that unheard of things: a trifle-less party.


Roll on a week and I'm in France. Dessert appears, a superb homemade apple cake in a puff pastry crust swimming in a pool of 'creme anglaise' (English vanilla cream). I refer to it as custard. "

Apple cake à la George Sand

No, not custard, you know 'Zuppa Inglese'", I'm corrected. But I know that Zuppa Inglese (English soup) is...well...trifle. A debate ensues on the relative merits of creme anglaise, creme patissiere, custard and zuppa Inglese. It's all vaguely confusing. The dessert, by the way, was delicious.


Now one thing I know is that I don't like Zuppa Inglese. This is because the sponge cake or ladyfingers layered in it are soaked in a liqueur called Alchermes, a sickly sweet pink coloured liqueur which is found in many Italian desserts. As its flavour is reminiscent of medicinal syrups I wasn't surprised to find out that in the past it had been used as such a remedy, most notably for the smallpox.


The soaked sponge is then doused in creme patissiere or custard as for a trifle.  It may then be topped by a chocolate sauce or meringue or whipped cream. The Zuppa Inglese may have originated from the 16th century kitchens of the Dukes of Este, the rulers of Ferrara. They would have asked their cook to reproduce the 'English trifle' which they had enjoyed on their frequent visits to the Elizabethan court.


Another story would have it that a Neapolitan pastry cook made it for Lord Nelson and had taken inspiration from the English booze-laden trifles. Hence, he gave it the name of Zuppa Inglese (English soup).


Whatever its origins Zuppa Inglese is a form of trifle albeit without the fruit and the jelly which goes into traditional English trifles. But the real question remains: is Tiramisu a trifle? 

Honfleur - Normandy

Of Christmas trees and more

Wouldn't you know it, I've been living in Italy for years with a misconception about the immaculate conception. It is celebrated with a holiday here on the 8th December.

For years I thought it celebrated the conception of Jesus. Silly. I was confusing it with the Virginal Conception which took place on a 25th March a long time ago, exactly nine months to the day before Xmas.


The immaculate conception was the conception of Mary's mother, St Anne. In Italy the 8th of December kick-starts the Christmas season which concludes on the 6th December, the Epiphany or as it is known here: the day of the Befana. The Befana is a witch who brings sweets for good kids and charcoal for naughty ones. 




She reminds me of St Nicholas  (the night of 6th December) which my brother and I used to celebrate when we were children. St Nicholas would come down the chimney and bring us gifts. His nasty side-kick, known as Père Fouettard (Father Whipper), and in those un-PC times usually depicted as a scantily-clad (in Winter!) dark-skinned fellow bearing a tall wooden staff in one hand and an elaborate leather horse-whip in the other, would come to punish naughty children. He would give them charcoal or even flog the really naughty ones.

 The Christmas season began in shops a while back. Mountains of Pandoro and Panettone, over-sized spongey buns some with raisins and candied fruit, some plain, others with chocolate chips, have been clogging up supermarket aisles since the last weeks of November. Each week more Christmas and New Year delights have been added to the shelves: long bars of nougat, bars of nut filled chocolate, candied nut cakes, bottles of Prosecco, lentils from Norcia, tortellini etc.... Yet all these products really high-light how simple traditional Christmas fare in Italy is. 

And then there's THE TREE. This year's Christmas tree on Piazza Venezia is a sad dying creature with lacklustre fronds that drag downwards. Last year already the tree had caused consternation and the city council had argued that it was a tree of austerity (what fun for Christmas) in keeping with the Pope's jubilee. In contrast, the Pope's tree all the way from Norway is a glorious pagan symbol with up-tilted furry fronds and merry baubles. In Galleria Alberto Sordi  the ecological tree all bio-degradable and environment friendly is a testimony to what private funds can achieve. It's also elegant and tasteful. In fact just about any Christmas tree looks nicer than the sad tree on Piazza Venezia.

Galleria Alberto Sordi

This year the tree has outdone its predecessor. No amount of baubles, tinsel and fairy lights can save it. For weeks the M5S led city council has protested that the tree is fine, until eventually the tree was declared dead. A cold uncovered trip from its native Dolomites and a harsh tearing of its root contributed to the trees demise. It also cost the city of Rome close on 50,000euros.

Old mangy after dark

It has been nicknamed spelacchio (baldy or mangy) and likened to a toilet brush. For many it is a symbol of the city's current state of decay and disorder. Che tristezza!

The pope's tree

In Coppede - whimsy let loose

I stumbled across Coppede quite by accident. I was hurrying to work. I got off the number 3 tram on Piazza Buenos Aires and thought I'd take a short cut rather than double back along Viale Regina Margherita. I'd turn down Via Tagliamento and cut across the back streets to Via Serchio where I gave lessons in a rather imposing villa with a large garden. It looked more like a private residence than a private school.

I turned the corner from Viale Regina Margherita into Via Tagliamento, strode past a church and walked into another world. Two enormous turreted dark grey stone buildings stood before me. At their foot was a make-shift parking lot with cars parked messily next to each other interspersed with motorbikes and scooters leaning precariously - a nudge, a strong gust of wind and they would teeter to the ground.

An arch spanned over the road and linked the buildings. A dark iron chandelier dangled down from the centre of the arch. I felt as if I'd walked onto the set of a horror movie, a kind of Gothic noir with a mad woman screaming in the rafters or maybe David Bowie in vampire drag sleeping in a coffin high up in the turret. So I wasn't surprised (after a bit of research) to learn that the horror meister himself, Dario Argento, had used the area in two of his films as had other directors such as Richard Donner, Carlo Vanzina and Francesca Barilli. 

I discovered that these two imposing buildings were the Palazzi degli Ambasciatori (Ambassadors Palaces). In a trance I inched closer to the arch, away from Via Tagliamento unwittingly towards the heart of the area. I passed on my right a statue Madonna con Bambino (Madonna with child). Under the arch I paused to gaze up at the black chandelier.

Two large windows at the back of the arch opened onto an apartment. I could see a large portrait of a woman. e watching the passers-by.

The heart of the area is Piazza Mincio with its central Fontana delle Rane (Fountain of the Frogs - 12 in total - constructed in 1924). The fountain has had its fifteen minutes of fame. The Beatles upon leaving  the nearby Piper Club decided to have some fun and jumped into it.
The Piper Club (owned by sixties diva, Patty Pravo) has been a bone of contention over the years with residents of Coppede claiming that music and associated vibrations have caused damage to the edifices.

Radiating out in all directions from that central fountain are the amazing, slightly demented buildings that make up the area.

But what had Gino Coppede, its architect, been thinking? The area is a mixture of Gothic, Baroque, Art Deco and Liberty with some added Medieval notes and Greek references.  Gino Coppede has been called the Italian Gaudi. A Florentine, he worked most notably in Genoa and Messina. In fact his style is known as style Coppede - it reached its apex here in Rome in a few blocks, comprising around forty structures (villas, buildings and a fountain), built between 1915 and his death ,of lung cancer,in 1927. His son-in-law, the architect Paolo Emilio André completed the project.

The Coppede style has been described as a fusion. Or as the 'Corriere di Genoa' of 1908 said: " he (Coppede) takes the best of what he finds, plays with the different architectural styles and melds them together in his own unique way."

Fontana delle Rane

Although it is referred to as a Quartiere  (an administrative district) it isn't one. It belongs to a larger, affluent area called Parioli.

Most Romans refer to the area as Quartiere Coppede after the architect who created it.

Today I stand beside the central fountain on Piazza Mincio and I walk around it. Its at the centre of a roundabout and cars and scooters rush by, its drivers oblivious or innured to what surrounds them.

On one side there's the 'Palazzo del Ragno' so-called because of the large creepy black spider painted above its entrance. Above the spider, a large stone face gazes out impassively, eyes dead.

Facing this is another key Coppede attraction the Villini delle Fate (Villas of the fairies). Seahorses adorn the wrought iron gates. The facade is decorated with painted scenes - references to Dante and Petrarch - and a nod to the architect's Tuscan origins. On the other side are the Palazzi degli Ambasciatori dark and oppressive, huge stone masses that dwarf the whimsical folly that is the small moss covered fountain by which i stand. 

 The area scares and delights in equal measure. Stone faces and monsters glare out from the facades. I am reminded of the horror classic starring Clare Bloom, "Hill House", I can but imagine inside the 'Palazzo degli Ambasciatori' endless corridors that go nowhere, obtuse corners and dull thudding noises that no one wants to hear in the middle of the night, and people being swallowed up by the vast stone edifices.

Yet, in direct juxtaposition, stand the Villas of the Fairies - cute seahorses and colourful painted Tuscan facades, as if to conjure away the darkness of the buildings which face them.





Seahorses

Gino Coppede was inspired by so many genres. He fused them into his unique style. It lives on today, utterly extraordinary in Rome. A little detour away from the beauties of ancient Rome, a trip into Parioli is all it takes to see and admire and shiver at his truly unique vision.

Fontana delle Rane



Rice Tales

There's no good rice in Italy, I would moan. It was all pizza and pasta. I would stock up my backpack with Camargue wild rice and packs of Uncle Ben's long grain. As far as I was concerned Italian rice was sticky and gloopy and best left alone.I had of course completely forgotten childhood dishes of ossobuco with its delicious saffron coloured creamy rice.

Uncle Ben's was a favourite because it really did cook as indicated by the instructions on the packet. However, with the passage of time it dawned on me that in a country which thrived on a selection of two types of first course namely pasta-based or rice-based, there had to be some pretty good quality rice about the place. There was.

The flat foggy plains of Padania, fiefdom of the Lega Nord (Northern League - a nationalist political party) were full of the stuff, as were the foothills of the Alps and the lowlands of the Veneto. Rice was everywhere.

And of every kind. There were the Arborio and Carnaroli types, both good for risottos though it seemed the Arborio type was the best for optimal mantecatura. There was the Roma type (for salads), Baldi and Ribe, as well as Nero Venere and others. The more I looked the more there were. Riso Gallo (the cockerel) is the brand which seems to dominate the market.

The most obvious uses of rice are for the risottos which can go from the plain bianco (cooked in broth with butter and parmesan to finish) to far more complex dishes containing meat and vegetables or maybe with shaved truffles on top, from family cooking to higher end gourmet dishes.
Just as long as the rice isn't scotto, over-cooked (ie a mushy mess) all is well.

Key to a successful risotto is the final mantecatura. That final addition of butter which melts into the just done rice to give it that perfect creamy texture. I watched, fascinated, as a TV chef demonstrated the procedure. The rice had been absorbing broth in time honoured fashion for the required 15 to 20 minutes with the requisite amount of stirring, now was the time for the final touch.

He slashed a corner of butter (btw Italian butter is no way as good as French butter) and dropped it into the pipping hot rice. It melted in seconds, he deftly seized the skillet and jerked it back and forth creating a wave (un onda). It was a thing of beauty. The white rice rose upwards along the edge of the skillet and fell back in a perfect wave as the the butter was mixed into the wet rice. He shook the skillet again and the rice obeyed in picture perfect mode.


Attempts to repeat the move in my own kitchen have been less than perfect. Firstly, the skillet is too heavy so I have to seize it with two hands which limits mobility. And while the wave will rise it rarely falls where it's supposed to. I'm happy with a wavelet, a ripple on the pond of my rice. The taste is aways great.

Rice isn't only for risottos (surely the plural should be risotti?), it is also the star in Roman suppli's (balls of rice with a mozzarella centre), in Sicilian arancine (orange-sized deep-fried balls of rice stuffed with fresh peas, or ragu and cheese) and various types of timballi (moulded rice cakes stuffed with vegetables, cheese and meat) such as the Neapolitan Sartu, usually served on special occasions. In the summer, cold rice salads (made with the appropriate salad rice) served with pickled vegetables (giardiniera) are curiously popular.

Timballo di riso e melanzane

Risotto con romanesca

Unreasonable

I've been in Italy a long time. I should be used to it. And yet...
Daily life can sometimes be an exercise in frustration, a daily banging my head against the wall at the sheer lack of logic, lack of practicality which is endemic. But is it only in Italy? I've been here close on 20 years so maybe I've lost perspective.

This past month has seen the widespread condemnation of the actress Asia Argento for bravely opening up about her personal contact with an American monster/ogre/whatever-you-want, a man who used his position to use and abuse. It was a classic case of shaming the victim whipped into a frenzy by the Italian media and making pundits out of the general public. The victim was responsible for what had happened to her seemed to be a widespread opinion. And it was hard to tell whether it was the men or the women who were more condemnatory.

Likewise, in a less horrifying way, when I decided not to go into the dog park because there was a large male dog who had taken such a dislike to mine that he set on her for no reason, I was told that, in fact, it was my dog's fault. Really? How so? I queried. If she weren't so shy, she wouldn't be attacked was the answer. I was astounded. I pictured the last violent encounter, when my dog had rolled onto her back in the classic surrender pose and the other dog had continued regardless, nipping at her exposed belly. So, it was in fact yet again the victim's fault.

Italians don't shy away from speaking up or making a fuss. They protest regularly: en masse. Demonstrations are a feature of living in Italy. Not a week goes by without one. But actually sticking up for a principal, sticking to ones guns in the face of adversity, effectively fighting continual unjustified price hikes, making teachers in state institutions accountable for their actions, getting rid of a plague like system of 'raccomandazione' which sees people get jobs through connections rather than on merit regardless of their ability to do the job.. well, no, that just isn't the done thing.

Asking too many questions makes one liable, it would seem, it makes one into a target for the bullies. And, they're everywhere. Curiously,, when I first came to Italy,  I was told that bullying didn't exist in Italian schools. I was incredulous. It just turned out that while it definitely existed it wasn't mentioned. Part of the, 'if you don't talk  about it, it doesn't exist' mentality that permeates all strata of life.

Don't query your child's grades for fear that his teacher will take it out on  him. Don't ask why the condominium fee has gone up by 30% because it may go up even more as a 'punishment', don't ask why you have to pay for a TV licence when the digital signal doesn't work so you can't get state TV, don't ask why the workers doing 'obligatory' work in your flat are not liable should they botch the job, but you are.... Don't ask. Don't become visible. Stay a victim of an unreasonable system. That's what you signed up for.
So unreasonable. But isn't it so everywhere?

Thursday Gnocchi

Small pale oval ridged lumps sat in a heap on the dish. The waiter grated over a scattering of parmesan flakes. From the kitchen came my dish, a brightly red coloured hill of tomato sauce drenched bucatini. The waiter repeated the parmesan ritual. Why did he have to be so mean? My dining companion shook his head , "giovedi gnocchi!" (it was Thursday). I tucked into my pasta as he ate his gnocchi. He smacked his lips, "buonissimo." I didn't believe him. How could something so dull looking so simple be any good?

And so, for many years I chose to ignore a key Italian dish. Possibly memories of my British grandmother's bland Sunday dumplings, lumps of stodgy flour, were to blame as well.
Gnocchi are prepared from North to South with regional variations and different sauces. The principal ingredient can vary from semolina, potato, chestnuts, pumpkin to the basic bread dumplings, canederli of the Alto Adige.

Tradition has it that Thursday is for gnocchi, hence 'Giovedi Gnocchi'. But the saying would be incomplete without 'Venerdi Pesce, Sabato Trippa'. (Fish on Friday, Tripe on Saturday). As gnocchi are filling and calorific, they are a good preparation for a lean fish-filled Friday. On Saturdays the butchers would prepare the cuts for the plentiful Sunday lunch. Offcuts, again the leaner and more digestible as well as smellier pieces would be used on Saturday. 



Thus, through thrift, parsimony and observation of Catholic tradition was no food wasted nor did anyone go hungry
Gnocchi may have originated in the Middle East but it was the Roman legions that brought them to Italy. These early gnocchi were made from a semolina porridge-like dough not unlike today's flat discs of Gnocchi alla Romana (also made with semolina).

The more widespread and popular potato gnocchi came with the introduction of the potato to Europe in the 16th century.
The basic recipe takes 700grs of mashed potatoes, 300grs of flour (type00), 40grs of parmesan and an egg all mixed together to form a dough. The dough ball is then split into smaller parts, each is rolled out into a sausage and each sausage cut up into separate little dumplings.The dumplings then need to be furrowed. Most Italian markets will sell a small furrowed palette along which to roll the little balls. However, pressing down a fork onto the soft dough will create a similar effect. The ridges are all important to capture and hold the sauce whatever it may be: tomatoes, garlic, pesto, four cheeses, chestnuts and cream, funghi porcini etc. .

Gnocchi are as versatile as any other type of pasta. They can be flavoured with herbs, truffles, cocoa, combined with any vegetable, and vary in size from itzy-bitzy gnocchetti to the ping pong balls that are the canederli.

The name, gnocchi, derives either from the Italian for knuckle (nocca) or knot (nocchio). Once the dumplings are made they can be kept for later on a semolina filled tray or plate, or tossed into boiling salted water to be poached. As soon as they float to the surface they are ready to be scooped out and tossed in whatever sauce you want.

They are not to be confused with the increasingly popular cousin gnudi (naked) a dumpling made of ricotta and parmesan usually with sage or some other herbs. They are called gnudi as they are the stuffing of ricotta stuffed pasta without the covering pasta.

As for myself, I have been won over to gnocchi. 
I started out with the cute gnocchetti in a pesto sauce. Then the regular sized knuckles of potato gnocchi with tomato sauce and basil while eyeing up the aluminium trays of flat Gnocchi alla Romana that appeared in fresh pasta shops on Thursdays. Eventually I gave them a try too. They're a tad tricky to make. 
My graduation is complete as I now make both potato and pumpkin gnocchi. But eyeing the future I consider extending the range chestnut gnocchi, spinach gnocchi….the gnocchi future is infinite.

A Fountain called Carlotta

Every so often I come across a curiosity. Thus, as I was checking the times of the monthly strike, I stumbled upon an article which spoke of Garbatella. I live close by. I read how the inhabitants of the area were delighted that the Fontana Della Carlotta was flowing again. A tube in her innards had broken and interrupted her flow.

Fontana Della Carlotta? I was puzzled. I'd never heard of it yet ,from what I read, it was an iconic symbol of Old Garbatella.

I went looking for it. It was as good as any an opportunity for a walk. I walked up my street across the Cristoforo Colombo where street jugglers entertained jaded drivers at the traffic lights and into Garbatella.

At the first roundabout I took a right, down the road that led towards the Circonvallazione Ostiense, Garbatella's main shopping street. On the left side I saw the characteristic low slung buildings and plant filled courtyards of Old Garbatella, on my other side were taller more  recent additions to the district.
.

 I turned left into Via Giovanni di Capistrano, a narrow street with a graffitied orange wall down one side.

 I was entering the heartland of Roma FC worship. High on one building was a red and orange plaque with the dark Roma wolf on it. Mention you favour Lazio FC here and you might not get out alive!

I didn't have to go far. The narrow road opened out onto a piazza. A sweeping staircase led down to it. It wasn't quite the Spanish Steps but for the inhabitants of the area it might as well be. This was the Scala degli Innamorati, the lovers' steps. There weren't any lovers now just a group of teenaged girls killing the tedium of a Sunday afternoon. On the piazza itself next to the steps stood a pillar, or was it a plinth? Atop it was a type of urn, lower down the pillar was a fountain. Rather small and unassuming, this was the Fontana Della Carlotta.

 A woman's head with long hair ( allegedly a dark-skinned woman) was carved into the side of a pillar. The spout from which ran the water, an ugly piece of rusting metal, jutted out of her mouth. The water ran into a small travertine basin.

In times past, presumably when there were less street lights, would-be couples would gather around her or sit on the steps, engaged in various steps of courtship.

 Over the years Carlotta has suffered her fair share of vandalism, her coiffe isn't quite what it once was, she's been stilled on more than one occasion but she is still going, a plucky lady in a tough city.

Drinking the water she pours is said to bring good luck - three sips, three swallows, make a wish and it'll come true.

A plaque affixed to a wall states: With the water of beautiful Carlotta saved from the damage caused by the time that passes, the history of Garbatella starts to flow again. For the inhabiatants the Carlotta is a big deal.

So who was Carlotta? The story goes that she was a beautiful, courteous (garbata) woman who would greet travellers who passed through the area when it was still part of the countryside surrounding Rome. The area became known as Garbatella as a tribute to this amiable woman.  It has also been said that while this pleasant hostess existed, her name was actually Maria.

Whatever the truth to the story may be, the Fontana della Carlotta exerts attention today. When she is silent the people of Garbatella worry.

It was time to say goodbye to the old girl so I climbed up the steps. At the top were a pair of urns outside some imposing large buildings: more of the famed 'Case Popolare' that make up old Garbatella. And, as if I needed a reminder of how staunchly Roman this area is, I pass a building with a large plaque dedicated to the Roman actor Alberto Sordi. If it wasn't Totti  the recipient of wide spread adoration, it was Sordi.



Alberto Sordi

Basil and pesto

"So what are you doing this weekend?" I ask. It's entry test time.
The potential student pauses, "make pesto with the old 'basilico'.
"Basil," I correct. It's the end of the summer and before the basil leaves wither away to uselessness they have to be harvested.

On my district market, large bunches of basil, some already sporting little white flowers or the buds of flowers, are sold at reduced price. In a few weeks all of the summer basil will have dwindled to nothing but a few dying drying sticks on the plant.

There is nothing nicer than the smell of fresh basil, no leaf which is more reminiscent of Italy even if it is an Asian native. It is the protagonist of so many iconic Italian dishes: the Pizza Margarita with its depiction in colours of the Italian flag: green basil, red tomatoes and white mozarella; or the Insalata Caprese another combination of tomatoes, basil and mozarella, to name but two. It can be added to salads and dressings for added fragrance, sprinkled over pasta even added to desserts (basil panna cotta).

But maybe the dish most associated with basil is pesto. The name pesto comes from the verb 'pestare' - to crush, to grind which is what happens to the basil leaves in the mortar. Pesto is a type of paste, a combination of ingredients crushed and ground to divine effect. There are many types of pesto.

The one that springs to mind most often is the pesto alla genovese. Basil, parmesan, pine nuts, garlic and olive oil are the key ingredients. Purists will claim that only a certain type of garlic (di Vessalico, because it's more digestible and less invasive in flavour than other garlics), only basil bearing the DOP certification (of protected origin) and only Ligurian olive oil may be used. The ingredients must be crushed in a marble mortar but with a wooden pestle and fast so as not to overheat the basil and thus run the risk of bitter juices spoiling the final result. Every autumn in Genoa, Liguria a pesto making competition is held.

Nowadays an easy short cut is to put all the ingredients in the food processor and pulse them to a paste. Pulsing is required, again to avoid overheating the ingredients. Purists will claim that the final product is not pesto!

A tale of two pestos. The layer of oil on top is added to preserve the pesto.

Other common pestos are the Sicilian and Trapanese versions. For the Sicilian version the pine nuts are replaced by almonds. ricotta replaces the parmesan and tomatoes (the oval perini) are added which give the pesto its distinctive red color. In the version from Trapani, a Sicilian town, the ricotta is substituted by pecorino which gives this pesto alla Trapanese a saltier grittier flavour.

Once made the pesto can be kept up to ten days in a jar, always add some olive oil on top to keep the pesto fresh. It can also be frozen, hence it's possible to make it in large quantities and save for a month when fresh basil is hard to find.

Trapanese pesto frozen

Pestos don't stop there. Any combination of leafy vegetable, nut and cheese combined with olive oil to form a paste can be coined a pesto. Thus my favourite poor-mans pesto, so-called because all the more expensive ingredients are substituted by their cheaper cousin: rocket for basil, walnuts for pine nuts and pecorino Romano for parmesan, the result will surprise you.

Traditionally pesto goes on pasta, a little of the boiling cooking water is often used to loosen the paste but it can be used in other ways. A dab on some fried zucchini, as a spread on a sandwich, in a risotto, with chicken breasts , in a baked potato etc....anywhere it's used it's a winner.

Villa Pamphilj in summer

Another hot summer day, Rome is still in the hands of Lucifer, an apt name for a heatwave. I weigh my options: the sea with its sand, murky water and thousands of hot sweaty suntan lotion smelling bodies, the couch in my shutter-darkened living room or.... 

It isn't too hot yet. I grab the dog and head out. I'll go to the park of Villa Pamphilj, Rome's biggest public park, in Monteverde.

I know the park well. I used to live near it and walk my dog there. I would go in through a cemented tunnel from Piazza San Pancrazio. My dog at the time, a cocker spaniel, would dash into the nearest fountain as soon as she could. That was more than ten years ago.

Today, I consult the internet to find out which is the fastest way there - the park is about seven kilometres from where I currently live. The route suggested isn't what I had in mind but I go with it.

On the 791 bus, an elderly man compliments me. I laugh, "for my dog?"
"Yes. You're the only person who puts a muzzle on your dog on public transport." I shrug. I'm just following the rules of the public transport company, but I know what he means. 

I decide to get off at the large outdoor market on Piazza San Giovanni di Dio. Even though it's August, the official holiday month, it's bustling and much as I remember it. I head down Via Ozanam, a steeply sloping road. It's a walk down memory lane.

There's the Thai restaurant I once went to. There's the Pasolini centre, with old men hanging out in front of it. Photos and posters are plastered to the wall to remind people that this is where, the writer, poet and film director,PierPaolo Pasolini set part of his most well-known novel, Ragazzi di Vita. He also lived in the area on Via Fonteiana and later in his life, on the more gentrified Via Carini in Monteverde Vecchio, up the hill from the council run housing estates and the boys who had inspired the main characters in his novel

At the end of Via Ozanam in front of the entrance to one of the large 'case popolari' building complexes made famous by Pasolini,I realise my memory is faulty. I thought that just off Piazza Donna Olimpia there was an entrance to the park. There isn't. It's another 300 metres down Via Donna Olimpia. But there is a welcome street fountain. 

The high brick and cement walls that encircle most of the park are up ahead and on Via Vitulonia I spy an arched entrance. We have made it. We take a path alongside a small stream. A dog is cavorting in and out of the stream. I'm heading for the 'laghetto' (little lake) , an ambitious name for a patch of water which is little more than a large pond. There are turtles, swans, ducks and geese. So, passing through a narrow aperture between some bushes I'm a little disconcerted to come across hundreds of pigeons on the banks of the pond and perched on the surrounding railings. Not what I remembered. 

On one of the benches that face the pond there is a mother with her two children. The boy is climbing over the back of the bench. His mother is trying to convince him that it's time to go home.


A small group of dog owners are huddled together. An elderly black dog suddenly let's off a series of barks and charges the pigeons. They noisily fly up and back down as the dog retreats only to repeat the same behaviour again and again. Two swans glide by. in the hope of a crust of bread. The heads of thousands of turtles poke above the rippleless surface of the pond. 

I walk around the pond and away from the people. The sun is hot now. I hope the fountains in the park are running. I pass two geese who object to my dog and advance menacingly. I back away from the pond and up a small alley.

I stop. I see a fire engine and a police car and a field of black burnt earth. It looks as if the fires which have plagued Rome have wrecked damage in the park.




I return to the pond and follow an ornate water course up towards a large fountain. The grass alongside the water channel is Yellow and sparse.  Each step  I take is accompanied by a cloud of dusty gravel and sand. I pause to watch some dogs jump in the water for a swim. This is strictly forbidden but their owners are well-organised. One man is lookout while the dogs play in the water. Should a park warden be sighted, the dogs and their owners would long have split before the warden got close. I enter a small damp grotto, below where the dogs are playing, it's deliciously cool.

I climb out again, refreshed and we go past the swimming dogs onto a parched esplanade in the centre of which is a fountain and not much else. I take the path that goes around the esplanade, past another small fountain, a closed off area and to the entrance that leads to the walled Via Aurelia Antica.

The park is silent here save for an arguing couple. She has taken offence at something he said. He hadn't intended to say it....


Joggers shuffle past, rivulets of sweat coursing down their bodies. An elderly couple walk by. Faraway a dog barks.


At the Monument to the Fallen French  (in 1849), a sadly vandalised monument even the fencing around it has caved in, I pass onto a wooded path which runs alongside a large flat field often used for football matches or even cricket. Today, it is yellow and deserted. 

To my left, over the walls of the park and the Aurelia Antica, I can make out, slightly hazy in the heat, the dome of St Peter's.


I'm at the Villa,  or to give it its proper name the 'casino del bel respiro' so called as set on a hill it was above the foul pestilential air of the city. It was once property of the Pamphilj family but now belongs to the Italian State.

 When Gheddafi came to Rome, a few years ago, he set up his tent in the park much to the annoyance of all the local dog owners. The park was closed to the public for 48 hours. This did not stop those in the know from entering via a chink in the fence and walking their dogs. Weren't they afraid of the colonel's bodyguards? Nah. They were all girls, (I thought they looked scary).

The 'casino del bel respiro' is impressive: a white shining square with niches in which are set ancient Roman artefacts most of them escavated from the park. At its foot is a carefully tended parterre known as the 'giardino segreto' (secret garden), it is closed to the public.

The areas open to the public look neglected. A lot of the fountains have been switched off, no doubt a water saving measure. But there is nothing sadder than a waterless, lifeless fountain.  Down in this part of the garden the heat burns. I sit on a bench under a tree beside the Pamphilj family chapel, closed and gated off. It looks so neglected: dead plants, brown beheaded palm trees, sparse yellow grass and weeds. This is not the park I remember.

the gated off secret garden

The silence is broken only by the muted sound of music from the MP3 player of a young man in joggers' gear resting at the next bench down. Some birds are singing but even they seem to be lacking energy. A swarm of large grey green parrots swish overhead and squawk loudly. 


Years ago, I would come here daily. Sit on the grass, luxuriant and green or under the rose covered trellis. Now there are more weeds than grass the only thing that seems to resist the drought. The roses look dead, long untended and forgotten.


The mock theatre hemicycle is dusty and as I peer in to its gloomy interior a pigeon coos in disapproval. I have disturbed its slumber.

I walk down the tree covered path to a drinking fountain (nasoni), it's flowing. Both the dog and I have a welcome drink. I pass 'Capi's' pool, where my previous dog would joyfully frolic whatever the weather. In all her years of doing so I never got caught  by the park wardens and never got a fine. 

I'm heading up towards the area of the park I know the best, next to the street I lived in for five years. It's a large green field, gracefully sloping down, at the top end of which stands a grove of umbrella pines.


Most of the year it is busy with people walking their dogs and children playing ball games and running about. At the beginning of the summer, in front of a house, the villino Corsini, (a library) a stage is set where various dance and musical performances are staged.


I walk up the slight incline next to the umbrella pine grove towards a curious structure, the arco dei quattro venti (arch of the four winds) so called because its four statues represent four winds.

 
I pass beside the arch, it's impossible to actually go under as it has been closed off. Again the area under the arch shows neglect ,weeds are growing through the cracks and waste blown in off the surrounding park has accumulated in corners. Pigeons have set up house.  


I head down a gentle slope onto the streets of Monteverde Vecchio. The streets around
the park usually hold a steady stream of cars. Today all is silent. It's also lunchtime. For my dog and me, it's time to head home and off the boiling tarmac.


My memory of the area is good and I find the bus stop off Via Carini, just next to the city walls in no time, Just as I thought the way I had planned to come to the park was faster than that suggested by the internet.

Lucifer by the way has gone. Poliphemus hovers in his stead. It's hot and humid.

Ghost town

It's the week of Ferragosto. I say week but Ferragosto is just a day: the 15th of August. A holiday which is significant in the Catholic calendar: the feast of the assumption of the virgin Mary (ie she gets to go to heaven). It is the height of the Mediterranean summer.


It feels like Sunday, it felt like Sunday yesterday too. It'll feel like Sunday tomorrow. The relentless chainsaws, jackhammers and breaking glass of the past few days has gone. From the street, hardly a car goes by. A turtle dove coos somewhere on the roof. Some birds sing. Later a murder of crows will gather, quiet, on the roof of the adjacent hotel only to vanish into the night. The large grey green parrots that are taking over the trees will swiftly swoosh past in the evening, chattering as they do so.

This summer saw Italy in the hands of Lucifer, a devastating heatwave. Those who could closed shop, walked out of their offices and headed beachwards. Others sweated in their apartments and sales of air conditioning units received a boost.


Lucifer brought a spate of fires in its wake. It seemed the whole country was burning. Fires in Sicily, in Sardegna, in the Marche, on the banks of the Tiber, in the pine groves around Ostia, up to the North of the capital past Morlupo, in the woods around Tivoli, hardly a day went by without a dark cloud appearing somewhere over the city dwellings.


And then came the news that some fires had been started deliberately. For the price of the cleared land, in some cases, and for the overtime in other cases, as a voluntary firefighter was caught in the act of setting fire to land. In Sicily, firefighters had got family to call in fires. All for a bonus.


Then at the peak of the sweat ACEA, the company that supplies water to Rome, announced that water was drying up. Spring rain had been sparse and aquifers were thirsty. Lake Bracciano, one of Rome's water 'tanks' was emptying and no one could say when the next big rainfall was coming.


There was talk of rationing - 8 hour water cuts a day were mentioned. There was growing irritation as it became clear that one of the causes of the water shortage was the poor condition of the water supply network with its old pipes and thousands of litres of leaks.

The mayor of Rome closed down some of the permanently running drinking water fountains. Small vendors upped the price on water.


A small grocery store near where I work decided to hike it's water price.
"That's 80 cents."
"But it was 60 yesterday."
"Well, it's 80 today."
There was no discussion possible. He was just responding to demand but failing to understand that with a shop on the outskirts by so doing he risked alienating some of his customers.

The water rationing hasn't happened yet.


Instead, the city has emptied. More and more people have loaded their cars and departed. All of a sudden the streets are full of parking spaces. Parking shortages have now reached small seaside towns.

All the newsagents have closed despite the fact that in any given area one must remain open (there's a law regulating this). On the local market there are no food stalls. In fact, there's not much of anything.  Public transport is in its second (or is it third) holiday phase to accomodate the fact that the drivers are away. Just to make commuters even happier, this summer a tract of the A-line has been closed to allow for work on the developing C-line at its junction with the stop of San Giovanni (A-line). I have decided to avoid Roman public transport for a month. 


This is not the week for a medical emergency or an accident as junior staff take care of the hospitals while the senior members of staff enjoy their holidays. Most vets have closed so animals cannot fall ill. Plumbers and electricians have vanished. A repair will have to wait. This after all is Ferragosto.