The change of seasons

There is a question that crops up every year twice a year, roughly around the end of April, and the end of September.

 "Have you done 'the change of seasons yet?".  Twice last week I was asked this question. Twice, I answered, "No, not yet."

When I first came to Rome, the question puzzled me. Didn't the seasons kind of change themselves? It generally provoked quite animated conversations among my female students. Eventually, I figured out that I was being asked whether I had exchanged my winter clothes for my summer ones in the wardrobe. Or, in the autumn, the summer ones for the winter ones. Again, I was puzzled. What was the big deal here?

Of course, I hadn't yet come across the words of the intimidatingly called website 'thinkdonna' (thinkwoman) which state "At each change of season, one of the thoughts we women have, is how to reorganise our wardrobes. The change of seasons starts in the wardrobe." There were no clear indications as to when the thinking woman should actually get close and personal with her wardrobe - a date would have been helpful.

More ominously, the words 'cambio di stagione' typed into my search engine threw up depressione (depression), stanchezza (tiredness),  sintomi stomaco (stomach symptoms), ansia (anxiety)  before coughing up what I was looking for armadio (wardrobe). Thus, my search suggested that the first area of concern when the seasons changed were health, and health problems. It was maybe not so surprising in a nation whose consumption of pharmaceuticals outdoes that of the French (allegedly).

I never fully appreciated what the whole 'cambio di stagione' was about until I witnessed it. I had been invited for dinner to an Italian friend's house. The flat was a long corridor, the various doors off it led to the different rooms. The kitchen, where I was headed, was at the end of the corridor. As I passed the open doorway of the dining room I stopped. 

"Are you moving?" I asked. Silvana hadn't mentioned anything about moving, but it looked like it. Piles of clothes covered the sofa and the large dining room table. The ironing board was set up in the corner of the room. Large plastic storage boxes were in various stages of being filled or emptied.

"No, it's the 'cambio di stagione'," she said and sighed. "I've been busy fot the last two days. Almost finished now," she added. 

The dinner began with 'tartine', another area of consternation as the word 'tartine' in French means sandwich and in my mind conjures up images of school day food such as 'tartine au sucre' (sugar sandwich). The 'tartine' on offer at my friend's were a type of 'appetizer.' Olive or anchovy paste was spread on triangles of rather tasteless and textureless white bread. Her partner walked in and said "Ooh tartine?! so who's the special guest?!" He picked up a wedge and stuffed it into his mouth in a single bite.

 As the meal progressed (fish after the tartine), I discovered that the change of seasons entailed taking out of their boxes the summer clothes, putting them in the washing machine, putting them out to dry (not many people have tumble driers in Rome) then ironing them and after that putting them in their wardrobes. She was cleaning and ironing for three here. Likewise, the winter clothes were also subjected to the whole wash, dry, iron and store in a box cycle.

Though according to 'thinkdonna', thinking women, whether they be housewives or others,, should also take the opportunity to clean the wardrobeand scour the drawers.


Years of childhood conditioning, in northern climes, make me wary. The expression: "En avril ne te découvre pas d'un fil; en mai, fais ce qu'il te plait." (In April, don't remove any clothes; in May, do as you please), will always stop me from wardrobe changes in April.

As this is the May day weekend I'll take the opportunity to pack up the winter stuff, all two boxes worth of it, and take out the summer stuff. If it smells musty, it'll go for a spin in the washing machine, other than that it'll go in the wardrobe. I may even dust (a bit).

Fava beans and Pecorino

The radio was on in the background, pop songs interrupted by ads peppered with the channel's "errediesse" logo sung time after time. Every now and again there was a news flash with the newscaster speaking at such high velocity I could barely catch a word. But the news was repetitive and words lashed out: 'concertone', 'Vasco Rossi', 'primo maggio', 'lavoratori', 'Piazza San Giovanni', 'Gianna Nannini'....It was 1999, the first of May, the international workers' holiday, was coming up. 

Every year on the 1st May a big free concert (the 'concertone')is held on the large Piazza in front of the Basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano. In 1999, the big name on the ticket was 'Vasco Rossi' who that year had a hit with "Quanti anni hai, bambina?" (How old are you, babe? - a rocking title there). I had no idea just how famous and popular he was - a kind of Italian Bruce Springsteen in terms of fandom but without the talent.
  
It was quite a few years later that I noticed the other 1st May ritual. I had vaguely observed in trattorie tablefuls of elderly Italians being served large pods of broad beans alongside cheese.The patrons would shave off and twist off slivers from a large wheel of white cheese with a black rind. They would unzip the pods and pop the fresh fava beans along with a piece of cheese into their mouths. They would chase them down with some chilled Castelli wine. This dish wasn't on the menu but the locals knew about it.

Not being a huge fan of beans and lukewarm about pecorino cheese, the poor man's parmesan, I hadn't been tempted to try. For many years I paid little attention to the fava beans which were always present on the markets and in the supermarkets in vast quantities in the Spring - long large twisted pods, Frankenstein's monster to the cute smooth green pea pods that invariably appeared on the stalls around the same time. They also reminded me of THAT line in 'The Silence of the Lambs,' as said by Hannibal Lecter: "I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti." Though as more than one person has pointed out liver, fava beans and red wine makes for a nutritionally well-balanced dish.

More ominous is the extreme allergic reaction connected to broad beans which in some cases can be fatal. An American friend (of Italian origins) was on holiday in Sicily enjoying a plate of broad beans when she keeled over and had to be rushed to 'Pronto Soccorso' (the ER). She hadn't known she was allergic.

For some people affected by 'favismo' a genetic disease, the consumption of these beans can cause a severe hemolytic attack leading to anemia. Just inhaling the broad beans' pollen is enough to trigger an attack. Hence, the notice outside supermarkets in the Spring warning clients that broad beans are on sale inside.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to try. I also had discovered over the years that pecorino romano was in fact quite a tasty cheese it was just a good idea to hold off the salt when serving it as it has a high salt content. It is also the star of the show in my favourite pasta dish, 'cacio pepe'.

I bought a small amount of beans and pulled the thread to open the pod. The interior was soft white and velvety with the beans laid daintly on its bed. The beans were still encased in an outer dull film, which when the beans are very fresh can be eaten, but it can also be removed to reveal the smaller shinier bean. 

I hesitated. Then tasted them. Was I allergic? I waited, though already knowing it was unlikely considering I've never been allergic to anything. However, there's always a first time. I broke a crumbly bit of snow white pecorino and tasted it with the bean. The hard salty creaminess of the cheese complemented the earthiness of the beans. It was a success.

I have since that first tremulous assaggio eaten them many times and in a variety of dishes. As for the concertone, that was a one off.

That very first 1st May in Rome a friend and I set off in the early afternoon for Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano.It wasn't far from where we lived so we walked up the road under the warm sun. The Piazza was already packed when we got there. A stage with stacks of loudspeakers beside it had been set up in a corner in front of the basilica. We were too far to see much. The figures on the stage were matchstick sized. When the music started all that reached us was a disharmonious cacophony of sound. 

By the time, the star of the show arrived the sound system was packing in. We couldn't make out what he was singing other than a raucous croaking sound rather like crows make. The ground was strewn with discarded bottles of Peroni beer and crisp packs. Some groups of young people were sitting in circles on the tarmac swaying to the music and singing almost as badly as the star while some were trying to climb onto the roof of the bus shelter for a better view.

As the last act hit her electric guitar with an ominous squeal of feedback, I nudged my friend and suggested we move homewards. Others were also leaving the piazza, some weaving uncertainly having drunk too much, others sporting bright red patches of over-baked skin and others discussing where they were going to have dinner. More than anything it seemed as if the concert was more about spending time with friends than enjoying the music.

Every year there is a big concert on Piazza San Giovanni in Laterano. It's a once in a lifetime experience. 


 

 

Little Easter

Pasquetta (literally little Easter) or Easter Monday is a day to be spent in company and traditionally outdoors with a picnic lunch. This, in a nation who in the summer will send their offspring to the beach with pasta for lunch, is no small under-taking.

It also involves no small amount of rubbish which the day after Pasquetta the gulls, crows and pigeons take great delight in strewing even further afield than the humans have left them. 

A walk in the park when I lived in Monteverde, in Villa Pamphili, the day after Pasquetta, was an olfactory and gustatory delight for my dog but a nightmare of flying food wrappers and pizza crusts left in situ.The very large bin containers that had been dragged into the park on city council orders to accomodate the extra rubbish, had been ignored. 

Last year was a DVDs only type of Easter Monday, relentless rain and people commenting: "just like where you're from." But this year it's bright and sunny which means getting out soon to avoid the crowds.

I head to the Caffarella, a large park off the Appia Antica. We pass the church of Quo Vadis (not named after the film!) but so-called because this is where Saint Peter met Jesus while Peter was fleeing persecution in Rome. According to legend, Peter asked Jesus: Lord, where are you going? (Domine quo vadis?) And Jesus replied, "I'm going to Rome to be crucified again." Ella decides this is as good a place as any other to have a dump. She would. She's a dog. 

I pick up after her and realise there isn't anywhere to dispose of the offending parcel. None of the unattractive bruised dumpsters that adorn the roads of Rome are visible.I walk down Via della Caffarella and notice that I am not the first person to have faced the problem. Bright pink, red or orange plastic poo bags have been abandoned on walls, at the foot of trees, in gutters. I sigh. I place the bag in my pocket and hope to come across a bin. In the meantime I shall have to brave on with the whiff of 'Ella number 2' about my person.

I enter the park and get over taken by joggers and cyclists. Romans ride their bikes as they drive their cars so as a pedestrian one needs extra ears and quick reflexes as they will weave semi-expertly in and out and round about. 

I pass an animal farm solely set up for the purpose of letting city kids see farm animals behind the safety of a high fence. Next to me a mother is pointing out a pig to her daughter: "Look, there's Papa Pig, like in the cartoon." And what works for city kids, works for city dogs. Ella is glued to the fence. She gets to see her first chicken, duck, goose and pig. She can't get enough of it. I have to drag her away.


I pass the entrance to the cenotaph of Annia Regilla, a noble Roman woman who was murdered in Greece  in 160AD. The archaeological site is open so I go in.

Two elderly women are seated at one of the picnic trees beneath a pollen shedding tree. I overhear one on the phone: "Yes. I've brought some salami and some cheese. What are you bringing?" I can only imagine that they are waiting for family to start the Pasquetta picnic. I divest myself of 'Ella number 2.'

 There are many streams in the park. And many notices warning people not to bathe in or drink the water.

 

However some dogs are having a merry romp. I arrive at the Ninfeo Egeria - all mossy waters and a suggestive alcove with the remains of a statue. But it is the flock of sheep in the neighbouring field that catch my attention. 

We climb up the hill, past the sacred wood and look down onto the Colombarium of Constantine, not a dovecot but a building which had once been used to keep the ahes of the deceased. 

Further up the hill I pass an ancient Roman cistern amid a field of small yellow flowers. More people are arriving, table cloths are being laid down, large hampers and baskets opened. It's getting hot and Ella is tired. 

 

Notes on Rione Monti

I get off the bus outside the grandiose Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. A sign of the times is the army vehicle and heavily armed soldiers in camouflage (why? They're in the city.) beside the metal detector that guards the entrance to the basilica. It's Palm Sunday, an important date in the Christian calendar and the faithful are there, queueing up to enter the basilica. 

 I head across Via Cavour and onto Via Urbana which leads down into the heart of the ancient suburra. Back in Roman times the insulae would have dangled precariously over the alley. The stink of the masses would have been overpowering. The area had once been infamous for drugs, violence and prostitution.

Today it is the trendy heart of the city, a village in itself, devoted to boho chic with vintage and second hand clothes shops alongside genuine and less genuine trattorie and other eateries catering to the tourists. 

I pass the church of Santa Pudenziana - home of worship to Rome's extensive Phillipine community and the oldest place of Christian worship in Rome. It dates back to the 4th century.

 As it's Palm Sunday the church is busy. I head off the narrow road up a graffitti-lined staircase onto an attractive plant-filled alley which disappointingly leads onto a large road, one of Monti's principle thoroughfares, Via Panisperna.

Monti is Rome's first district -  central Rome is divided into 22 administrative districts known as 'rioni'. Most of Rome's rioni are included within the old city walls. Over the ages the borders of the rioni have fluctuated.

Monti (Hills) was so called because wthin its original borders it encompassed the Viminale, Esquiline, parts of the Quirinale and Caelian Hills. It extended as far as the Aurelian walls.
Today its 1,6 square kilometres no longer include the Quirinale and Caelian Hills.

 










At the end of Via Panisperna I turn onto Via dei Serpenti so-called it would seem because of a mosaic depicting the Madonna (?) with her foot on a snake. It is a road I know well. It is home to two excellent Indian restaurants: The Maharaja (a little pricey) and Mother India. 

I check out the Tuscan emporium (Podere Vecciano) I've heard so much about:all oils, jams and honeys with some pretty hand-painted ceramics. 

I then discover that my invisibility cloak is still working. It works particularly well in domestic appliance/computer supply shops.  Despite the fact that I'm the only customer in the shop the man behind the till (owner?) acts as if I'm not there. In his defence, I could say I was rather shabbily dressed: jeans, T-shirt and cardigan, so fairly obviously not the type of person who'd be going for over-price olive oil and vinegar.

I leave the shop, half regretting not having bought the attractive hand-painted bowl with owls and leaves on it.

At Piazza della Madonna dei Monti a procession is underway. Mass has just finished and a gaggle of nuns followed by the faithful are singing their way down the street for, as it turns out, a short distance, as they turn into the church of the Madonna dei Monti, the one with the snake squashing Madonna, on the street of the same name. 

I walk down the Via della Madonna dei Monti, all very picturesque and weave my way to the back of Augustus' forum. Monti is one of the larger districts and my feet are beginning to feel it.

Walking back up Via della Madonna dei Monti I come across a heart rending sight. Embedded in the cobbled road surface are some metal plaques, I bend down closer to read the inscriptions and realise that they are memorials to the people who once lived in the building I am now standing in front of. They lived there and in 1944 were deported to Auschwitz. They never came back. 

 Climbing up and down hills over cobbles and across large roads such as Via Cavour I end up on Via del Colosseo with the Colosseum a great big mass in my sights. I read this week that since 2015 a colony of hedgehogs have made their home there. 

I go past San Pietro in Vincoli, but the Palm Sunday crowd stops me from going in to see Michelangelo's Moses. I walk down the Scalinata dei Borgia (the Borgia steps) across Via Cavour and past Finnegan's Pub. There are many pubs in Rome where ex-pats gather to watch football and rugby matches on flat screen TVs while drinking their pints. 

 Last time I came here at Halloween the pub had been decorated for a party for the owners' children. There had been cotton cobwebs, plastic spiders, skulls, bats and ghosts dangling form every picture frame and mirror and the TVs had been switched off.

I arrive outside the metro stop of Cavour on Piazza della Suburra where an ancient plaque marks the spot.  'tis time to head home. My feet are killing me!