In the 'hood.

"That Chinese soil is no good," Ali, the local florist points to my bag of cheap 'universal' soil. I've stopped by his stall to get some catgrass. 

"Why not?"

"It's Chinese. Chinese is bad."

I laugh. I've been using it for years and my plants are flourishing. And, as a quick perusal of the bag confirms when I return to my flat, the only thing Chinese about the soil is that I bought it in a so-called Chinese shop. The soil itself comes from a region near Lake Trasimeno, in Umbria, most definitely not from China.

The Chinese shop is not, as one might think, a shop that sells Chinese food and objects, but rather a shop of Chinese (though in Italy the term Chinese is an umbrella term for almost all Asian nationalities) ownership .It sells just about anything at cheap prices. Over the years, 'Chinese' shops have popped up all over the city much to the annoyance of the native owned shops who do not appreciate the competition. 

 The neighbourhood in which I've have been living for the past twelve years is decidely unfashionable.While it is, as the crow flies, a mere 3 kilometres from the ancient city walls just beyond the Baths of Caracalla, in atmosphere it is world's apart.

It's on the wrong side of the Cristoforo Colombo - a large and dangerous road that connects Rome to the coast at Ostia - and opposite the areas of Garbatella, home of the 'real' Roman, and San Paolo, characterised by the Basilica of St. Paul outside-the-walls. 

The only tourists here are those who are staying in the large hotel, opened seven years ago, which backs onto the condominium complex I live in. I see them at the local discount buying pasta, tomato 'passata' and chocolate to bring home, some may even stock up on dried herbs such as basil or origano or dried peperoncino.

Now and again I have come across them in my local tabaccaio buying bus tickets and attempting to get information out of the owner Marco. He can't speak English and sullenly answers in Italian which the tourists can't understand.

"It's not as if I could speak Italian if I went to their countries," I've heard him grumble time and again. Fortunately, his impressively tatooed daughter, Chiara, knows enough English to communicate. Likewise, most of the staff in my local discount can say their numbers in English.

But what makes my area unpopular is that it bears the moniker - 'Tor.' For many people this puts it in the same class as such peripheral zones as Tor Bella Monaca and Tor di Quinto, sadly famed for their weekly drug busts.

When I moved here my ex-landlord laughed, "Eh! If you can't afford it you have to go to the periphery," he said, his large rotund belly shaking with mirth. Futile were my attempts to explain that I was still well within the city limits.

My Tor, that is Tor Marancia, was built up in the 1950s - a large part of the original dwellings were 'case popolari' funded by the state to provide housing for the poor, and they have remained so to this day. 

On my road, on one side there are large expensive condominium blocks whereas on the other there is a chain of 'case popolari' apartment blocks.They may also explain why there are two discount supermarkets on my road.

 In fact, there are seven supermarkets (one of which is an organic supermarket from the chain 'Naturasi') within a kilometre and a half radius of where I live. It was like arriving in supermarket land when I moved here from the quieter and more up class neighbourhood of Monteverde.

Up until about five years ago there were no smaller grocery shops but in the last five years Bangladeshi and Pakistani owned shops have opened offering just a little bit more variety such as plantain, sweet potatoes and coriander,  than the usual eggplants and zucchini found in all Italian supermarkets year round.  

Every morning, bright and early, I walk my dog around the neighbourhood. We often go past Ali's flower stall next to the Pizza al Taglio(pizza by the slice) which is always packed to the rafters at lunchtime, and past a beauty shop until we reach a small park encircled by roads. There is a play area for children and a fenced in play area for dogs. Flocks of large grey green parrots feast on the grass and on the leaves. .

Before going into the doggy playground I check that a large male dog is not there. He tends to go for mine. He isn't. I go in and let my dog run free. Some men from the local tennis club throw in some used tennis balls and the dogs jump excitedly as the tennis balls bounce around them.

On Mondays and Fridays, the road that runs alongside the doggy playground is busier than usual. On a parking lot between the Cristofo Colombo and the park, three rows of stalls have been set up for the local market. 

Three of them sell fruit and vegetables from the South of Lazio, one also has bread and large balls of mozarella cheese swimming in their milky brine. There are stalls which sell clothes with prominent labels stating 'Italian design' all the better to hide their actual, 'Made in China' or 'Made in Taiwan' status.

If anyone needs pots and pans, spare parts for their 'Foletto' vaccuum cleaners sold door-to-door, bed and bathroom linen, cushions, pictures, herbs and diverse plants, beads and other paraphernalia for do-it-yourself jewellery as well as clusters of garlic that could ward off the most fool-hardy of vampires alongside fragrant sachets of dried lavender which the vendor insists are from Provence in France, this is the place to come to.

There is a larger daily market just up the hill at Montagnola which is specialised in food stuff, with excellent fish and meat stalls.

 
Once my dog has enjoyed her romp, it is time to head home. Sometimes we head down the graffitti-decorated road which passes by the old 'Fiera di Roma.' Most of the facilities are now disused, though a part houses a 'Police Car Museum'.

Or we go down a residential road on which there is the areas principal fornaio (baker's) who sells rolls, bread, pizza slices and rather dry plum cakes (none of which contain any plums - it's just a name).

This road comes out onto my road just opposite a complex of buildings, all 'case popolari', which have been taking part in a street art project entitled 'Big City Life.'

In February 2015, the first of these facade-high designs went up. Each facade was painted in bright colours and various ways by different artists.

Today, a small number of visitors can be found walking among the buildings, admiring (or not) and photographing the facades.

 At the foot of this complex, there is a small shop, my last stop before I complete the loop home.




I see a mountain of fresh artichokes of the type called mammole. The owner notes my interest, "they are from Sardinia. They are the best not like those Sicilian artichokes."

"Aren't the Sicilian ones any good?"

He looks disgusted, "tough. No flavour." He is Sardinian.

Cooking pasta

"Is it true.." here the young woman hesitated, then continued, "Is it true that in England to check if the pasta is cooked you throw it against the wall?"

I had heard of this practise before but decided to dismiss it as an urban myth. Surely it couldn't be true!

The idea was that if the pasta stuck to the wall, long strands of spaghetti being the preferred type for this culinary test, the pasta was done.  

Pasta is a serious topic. Many are the horror stories connected to overdone, overcooked pasta. 

This always begs the question: why do Italians always insist on eating Italian food abroad if they know that it is going to be sub-standard?

"When I was with my host family in Brighton I prepared the spaghetti for them," says Giulia. 

Marcello nods and tells us how when he was in America he was served re-heated pasta. A collective shudder runs through the room. "I had to teach my hostess how to cook pasta," he finishes off. 

Another tale of disaster followed, this time the souvenir of an  exchange holiday in France."They just threw the spaghetti into a pan of cold water. Cold water!! And then left it there for twenty minutes. I couldn't eat it,"

"It was all glued together. Inedible," came another testimony, from a summer spent studying English in Oxford.  

These were serious offences against food. No other nation could cook pasta correctly.

But, I wondered, why was this? Was it chronic misinformation the world over? I had read that on 'Barilla' pasta packets sold in America the advised cooking time was longer than on those sold in Italy. Americans believed that 'al dente' pasta was harmful for digestion so aimed for overcooked, 'scotta'.

Yet cooking pasta is not a complex task. There are some simple rules to follow.

1. Don't over-crowd the pasta. Aim for lots of water. The rule of thumb is 1 litre for every 100grs of pasta. You need a large pan. The pasta needs space to roll around and buck in the boiling water.

2. Use salt.

 I used to add a drop of olive oil to the water. An Italian friend saw me do this. She let out a horrified screech, "ma che fai!" (What are you doing?) I explained that the oil prevented the pasta from sticking together. She gave me a 'these foreigners are nuts' kind of look and gently said that if I used enough water the pasta couldn't stick. And besides, it was a waste of good oil. And, what would I do with the water afterwards? 

It was my turn to give her an agonised look. The water? Again, patiently, she explained that the water could be used for doing the washing up.

3. Don't use too much salt. Pasta dough is unsalted so it needs the salt in the cooking water to give it some flavour.

Now here there are differing points of view as to when to throw in the salt. I always put it in at the beginning as, from a chemical point of view, it helps the water reach boiling point a little faster. But, many cooks suggest throwing in the salt just as the water reaches boiling point and stirring it in, just before chucking in the pasta.

Salt crystals

4. Cook just under a minute of the recommended time on the pack. Thus, when you toss it in the sauce you have prepared it won't overcook and become that dreaded 'scotta'. Pasta must be 'al dente' - firm when you bite it. I once met an Italian who liked his pasta so 'al dente' it was chewy.

Remember that fresh pasta, as opposed to dried pasta,takes so little time to cook that turn away for a second and you are doomed.

 
5. Save a cupful of starchy, salty cooking water for a glossy finish on the sauce. You toss the cooked and drained pasta into the sauce, if it needs loosening add some of the cooking water. Some recipes such as 'cacio pepe' (pecorino cheese and pepper) rely on this addition of water to bring the dish together.

6. When you drain the pasta don't rinse it in cold water.

The other thing to bear in mind is that specific dishes need the right pasta. Hence, the good old 'spag bol' revered by so many is not Italian. The 'ragu alla bolognese' should be eaten with tagliatelle or fettucine - flatter and wider types of pasta than spaghetti to which the sauce can adhere better.

It doesn't stop there:  bucatini all'amatriciana, rigatoni con la pajata  (a Roman dish of milk fed veal intestines in a tomato sauce), penne all'arrabbiata (angry pens, a hot pepperoncino sauce characterises this dish), tonarelli cacio pepe, farfalle (butterflies) with a tomato or cream based sauce. pizzocheri-a buckwheat pasta from Northern Italy with cabbage, orecchiette (little ears from Puglia) alle cime di rapa (tender stem broccoli), strozzapretti (strangled priests) con porcini, small pasta shapes such as stelline or the Sardinian fregola in a minestrone or a broth..... 

There are an estimated 350 different types of pasta with just as many sauces and accompaniments. Using pasta in all its different ways is fun, just make sure it isn't 'scotta'.

bucatini with a simple tomato sauce and basil

Along the Tiber

"When I was your age I didn't have a mobile phone. They didn't exist. There were no computers. There was no internet." The children stare at me, wide-eyed, aghast. I'm describing a world that is inconceivable.

So, in a bid to get away from the madness that has engulfed our world, I leave my phone at home. I head down to the Tiber.

The Tiber, the large and windy river that runs through Rome, has its source up in the Appenines, on Monte Fumaiolo, and spills out 405kms down the line in a great mass of polluted water at Fiumicino.

I join up with the river at the height of Ponte Marconi. Here, the banks are just high reeds and scrubland, inaccessible to pedestrians. I stroll alongside the bike lane.The river is a dull brown mass to my right. Some gulls swoop up and down drawing large arcs in the sky above the river. I walk past a plush sports club offering both tennis and football lessons.

At the height of Via Enrico Fermi, just before Lungotevere di Pietro Papa becomes Lungotevere  Vittorio Gassman, I gain access to the banks. The bike lane dives down and in the distance I can spy the gasometro, a large metal construction part of the disused gasworks in the Ostiense area of the city. A young cyclist whizzes past shouting excitedly as his bike speeds up on the slope.

The banks of the river are littered with all manner of rubbish: plastic bottles, shreds of plastic wrapping, plastic and paper bags, metal cans, pieces of fabric, lone shoes....  On the opposite side of the river I can see the ramshakle constructions in which gypsy families choose to live. Every now and again they get moved on and the dwellings are destroyed only to be replaced at some later date.

 I pass under the Ponte della Scienza Rita Levi-Montalcini, a steel and cement construction which was inaugurated in 2014. It was dedicated to the Italian Nobel laureate, Rita Levi-Montalcini, who passed away in 2012 after a lifetime devoted to the study of neurobiology.

Il gasometro

A woman on a bike comes to a stop close by and shouts back, "Non sei un figlio, sei un fastidio." ("You're not a son, you're a nuisance.") "E pure tu," (" And so are you"), answers her son coming to a halt beside her. His nose is itching, his hands hurt. He has a litany of complaints. His mother is fed up with his whining. They resume their troubled excursion, rapidly disappearing into the distance.

The next bridge is the Ponte dell'industria, a 19th century iron structure built by a Belgian company in England and then transported in pieces to Italy. It used to deal with the flow of train traffic from Ostiense. 



Nestled in a corner where the bridge forms an angle with the land is a makeshift home, pieces of cardboard with covers draped over them hide the occupant from the people who pass by daily. 

Just a few paces further is the railway bridge, Ponte San Paolo, it was built at the beginning of the 20th century. As I walk under it a train rattles over from the station of Ostiense to the next stop at Trastevere. My dog is scared and crouches down. 

Ponte dell'industria

Once away from the bridge she perks up again. There are more people about now joggers and cyclists as well as others walkers with their dogs. A man with a large dog pauses by as our dogs greet each other. 

"Is it a woman?" he asks in English (he must have overheard me talking to my dog). "A female," I answer. He nods and repeats the word. All is safe as his dog is a 'man.'
 

Under Ponte San Paolo

 High above the path, I can detect the bustle of Rome's largest flea market at Porta Portese. Every Sunday morning people flock to the market looking for bargains: cheap, vintage clothes, old LPs, old-fashioned phones, antiques, paintings...

On the river I see a small island with gulls sunning themselves. On a nearby rock a large black sea bird is standing wings open as if it is trying to dry them in the breeze. 

On the opposite side I can see the large apartment blocks characteristic of the Testaccio district of the city.

My gaze drops downwards to the slow-flowing water of the river. Yellow crime/accident scene tape is floating in it. It reminds me that not so long ago a young American student was found in the river, dead, after a presumed-mugging gone wrong. Would it have been at this point? Every year someone perishes in this murky morass.

Ponte Sublicio

Then suddenly there is an obstruction. The way is closed. A metal barrier stops all people from continuing on and under the Ponte Sublicio. People inspect the obstruction. Cyclists get off their bikes and push them onto a narrow strip of muddy ground alongside this barrier. If they slip it's a straight fall down onto some rocks and into the Tiber. I follow them onto the uneven path. Fortunately its a short distance, and it's with relief that I get back onto the bike lane. 

Walking on I overhear the converations. "Che disgrazia!" (What a disgrace!)  "Why hasn't the comune done anything about it?"  Six months or was it four months that the bike lane had been barred because of a mud slide following some heavy autumnal rain or was it after a summer storm? I hear varying versions but the gist of it is that nothing has been done about it for months.

 I'm now in Trastevere, the sun is shining and it's hot. I rest on a metal construction, possible once used for mooring boats. My dog is transfixed by the sight of gulls and gannets on the opposite bank. They are noisy. 

There are ornate lamp posts curving high above the cycle lane. The wall rises sheer and ominous up to the road. Affixed in it are strong metal hoops. Above on Lungotevere Ripa for the first time since I began my walk I can hear the sound of traffic. 

I head on for the final stretch of the walk to Rome's only Island, a small wedge in the heart of the city. It lies just beyond the Ponte Palatino (aka Ponte Inglese, English bridge). The bridge was built in the place of the 2,200-year-old  Ponte Rotto (broken bridge). All that remains of the original ancient Roman structure is an arch, adjacent to the 19th century masonry and metal construction. 

Ponte Palatino

At the Isola Tiberina, I climb up a steep, beer-bottle-glass-strewn staircase onto the Ponte Cestio. The Tiber Island is a mere 67 metres across and 270 metres long. 

I cross it passing a hospital, a chemist's and a church and link up with the other side of the Tiber via the only remaining ancient bridge in Rome, the Ponte Fabricius.






Today, on the bridge, some street vendors try to interest passers-by in their fake designer bags while a busker entertains, strumming his guitar and singing out-of-tune.

L'isola Tiberina and Ponte Cestio

 

On the bus ride home, I'm about 8 kilometres away, the bus driver is having a conversation on his phone with his girlfriend or his wife, while behind me a man is discussing work loudly, even though it is Sunday. Another phone is ringing but its owner is not answering. It's impossible to get away from phones for long in our world. Indeed, one might ask: what did we do before mobile phones?