In Trastevere

Trastevere.....wonderful Trastevere! From my earliest days in Rome I've always been fond of Trastevere.

Firstly, it was home to one of Rome's few original language cinemas, the Pasquino. It was on Piazza di Sant'Egidio, opposite the Museo di Roma in Trastevere and next to a bar called Ombre Rosse (named after the John Wayne film 'Stagecoach').We would sit on the narrow terrace at Ombre Rosse with a glass of white wine and a slice of New York cheese cake, either after a film or as we waited to go in. Back at the end of the nineties it was one of the few places in Rome which sold cheesecake, there and the Austrian bakery in the Ghetto. All good things come to an end and the Pasquino closed its doors. Now an art gallery stands on the premises.

Secondly Trastevere had one of the best bookshops in Rome, then known as the 'Corner Bookshop', a small cube set on the corner of two narrow alleys. It moved a few doors down to become the 'Almost Corner Bookshop', where you can still find it today on Via del Moro.

The second hand bookshop, on Via della Lungaretta, close to the tiny school I used to work in and where I found many cheap treasures is still there, as dusty and musty as ever. It recently celebrated 40 years in business.

Other than films and books, more than anything, it provides an endless stream of excellent, moderately priced restaurants, pizzerie, trattorie and wine bars. On Via San Francesco a Ripa there is Ivo's for pizzas, a little further down the street Cave Canem where one evening our limoncellos were served with our bill making it clear that we were to drink up and move as soon as we could to make way for an incoming wave of tourists. It marred what would have been a perfectly nice evening. Near Piazza della Scala there is the Trattoria della Scala where I first tried straccetti di manzo con rucola (thin strips of beef with rocket sprinkled on top).

Walking out of 'Cave Canem' and onto Piazza San Calisto, next to 'Paris' one of the best places to try Fiori di Zucca, is the infamous Bar San Callisto. Infamous because this was the bar which supplied all the low-lifes that clutter the streets with it was said more than just beer. It is still known as the bar with the cheapest beer in Trastevere. It's terrace is always packed.

From here, it's just a hop and a skip to the heart of the district on Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere with its magnificent basilica, the central fountain and terraces packed with tourists. Due to renovations the beautiful mosaic frontispiece is hidden behind scaffolding and a veil of fabric.

 There are two important basilicas in Trastevere: Santa Maria and Santa Cecilia. The former is a pre-Medieval Church, one of the oldest in Rome, with impressive mosaics whereas the latter is a Baroque Church dedicated to the martyrdom of Santa Cecilia. It was built over an earlier Roman Church.

Santa Cecilia

From Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere, if you take a right down the little road beside the newsstand, you will find  yourself on Via della Lugaretta. It goes down towards Viale Trastevere, the large thouroughfare that bissects the area, and continues all the way over the other side to the Tiber past terrace after terrace of tables and bars.

The number 8 tram rattles up and down Viale Trastevere from Piazza Venezia to the top of the Circonvalazione Gianicolense at Casaletto.

Further on past the Island on the Tiber you will reach the city walls and Porta Portese. Every Sunday, Rome's largest flea market takes place at Porta Portese where among the usual rubbish it's possible to find some genuine antiques and vintage items. Beware the pickpockets! But this is the unfashionable side of Trastevere away from the bars and restaurants. and tourist masses.

If instead, back on Piazza Santa Maria you take a left, this will take you to Piazza Sant'Egidio, go through the square onto Via della Scala, stop at Caffe della Scala for a beer or a chilled white wine then continue through the Porta Settimiana onto Via della Lungara turn down Via Corsini at the end of which are the Botanical Gardens. The botanical gardens are well worth a visit and also a quiet respite from the crowds. Nearby are the museums of Palazzo Corsini and Palazzo Farnesina (which I haven't visited yet).

However, retracing our steps rather than taking Via della Scala on leaving Piazza St. Egidio you take Vicolo de' Cinque this will take you to Enoteca Ferrara and Via del Moro. As you're here might as well pop into the 'Almost Corner Bookshop'. Once that visit is over head towards Piazza Trilussa and the Tiber.

But today I'm in Rome's 13th district for the Festa dei Noantri.....

Land of the red haired women

When the temperature goes up outside, people do all they can to keep cool. Romans shed their clothes with alacrity. For the women the hem lines go up and neck lines plunge. The fabrics get lighter and lighter almost to the point of being transparent. Indeed, knicker lines become visible and bras adopt a new not-quite-outer wear status.

Men opt for shorts, logoed T-shirts and flip-flops. And, unless they are civil servants with their obligatory dress code of suit and tie, unfair for the men as women can wear what they want, the casual tie-less look is in.  

Sandals of amazing complexity in a variety of materials some adorned with sparkly stones and beads appear on well-manicured and well-cared for feet. Legs are waxed to the max though strangely armpits may remain hairy.

Women start teasing their long flowing locks onto their heads so as to feel a breeze, when there is one, on their necks.They have a vast array of clips and grips and elastics, some go for headbands and combs, anything that can get their hair off their skin short of actually cutting it.

I go to my hairdresser. My first visit to a hairdresser in Italy was a disaster. I didn't speak enough Italian to convey what it was I wanted. In the event I got a short cut but with an alarmingly pouffy blow dry which left me with a dandelion-like puff atop. Even worse I was on the way to work so I couldn't go home and shower it to more reasonable proportions. I spent the lesson watching a student stuff his mouth with a hanky every time mirth almost over-powered him. The other students were wreathed in large smiles.

Though thinking about it, maybe it had nothing to do with a failure to communicate. A few years later, one of the sales staff at a school I worked at, returned from his lunch break with the most startling of blow dries. His hair had been puffed up and swept back into wings along the side of his head and then sprayed into place. Had he been a model just about to saunter down the catwalk no one would have blinked. He was a middle-aged sales rep. He got a lot of smiles that day.

Nowadays I stick to the same hairdresser for as long as I can. The better to get to know the staff. For many years I went to a small place in a road that led off Campo dei Fiori to Piazza Farnese. It was a French franchise operation, appropriately enough as Piazza Farnese is home to the French embassy. Then the owners ditched the franchise and went rogue with a subsequent hike in prices which saw me abandon them with regret. 

I transfered to a similar franchise operation on the Via Tuscolana just two metro stops up from where I work. 

With some trepidation as I walk in today, I note that the woman who usually cuts my hair isn't there, instead a young man with heavily tatooed arms takes over. I point to the photo of the way-prettier-model than me who sports the cut I want. But as I'm waiting, I flick through the brochure of cuts. I point at another photo.

"That's very short," the young man cautions, "especially at the back."

I nod, "Go for it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It'll grow back anyway." And in a re-enactment of Edward Scissorhands he cuts and cuts and cuts. Snippets float around the air and down my gown, whiter and greyer than I would like but I dislike dyes. More accurately, I dislike the smell of most products used in commercial dyes.

This of course has prompted comments along the lines of:

"You're so courageous."

"I could never let myself go grey like you."

"It's a good thing you have short hair. Long grey hair is so sad" 

"It suits you but it's not for me." etc.....

When it comes to personal comments, even inappropriate ones, Italian women are no wall flowers. Though in many ways their comments reflect their own insecurities.

In turn I observe their red-dyed shag piles, sleek bobs, layered locks and tumbling ringlets, varying in colour from the scariest gingers to coppers, burgundies, auburns and cherries, rubies, intense reds, violets, titians and magentas. Why red? Is it because it is a 'passionate' colour, the colour of love but also the colour of war? 

Last year every morning when I went to the dog park to see if Mia, a black Labrador had arrived I would look through the foliage for the intense red glow of her owner Grazia's hair. The mother-in-law of the custodian to my building with her ever thining locks goes about in bright orange while the custodian herself dances from auburn to magenta as the seasons pass.,And if they haven't dyed it a shade of red then there'll be a red highlight or red tips. 

It has nothing to with age as I've seen this colour on women from 18 to 80. In fact 60% of women in Italy tint their hair. 

A colleague of mine expressed some alarm when she came to Rome for the first time in 1998. "All the women had red hair. What was that about? I felt like I'd landed on another planet, in the land of red-haired women. Everywhere I turned I saw red!"

The years have passed but the affection of Italian, or is it just Roman ?, women for red goes on. Personally, I'll stick to my shade of grey. For now.

Santa Pazienza

The waiting room is over-flowing. A large dog is whining in a corner, my cat is miaowing and 2 other cats are cowering in their transporters. The door opens, a man with a large dog tries to get in but realises he and his dog won't fit. He resigns himself to waiting outside. Though before closing the door asks "who's last?" A woman points at me.

"No, I've got an appointment." I glance at my watch, it is already ten minutes past the time of the appointment. This draws a couple of strange looks, the vets here don't do appointments. My cat needs to see one of the myriad consultants of the practice.

The door opens again, and a man pulling a suitcase enters the room and knocks on one of the two doors which lead to the practice. He is ushered in. Time ticks by. More people arrive. Some are ushered in. A woman arrives, her cat has an operation scheduled. A man with shoulder length curly hair and wearing Bermuda shorts strides in as if he owns the place, and maybe he does, he enters the inner sanctum. Finally, the doctor with whom I had an appointment half an hour earlier arrives, muttering something about traffic along the way.

"Santa Pazienza," I think. How much longer? I fix my gaze on the posters warning pet owners of the hazards of not testing their four-legged ones for a variety of nasty and not-so-nasty ailments. Beware mosquitoes! Beware ticks! More people pop their heads in the door. The appointment after mine has arrived with a large dog straining at the leash. "What is this? Just cats today," he mutters resigned to a wait outside where the weather is changing as dark clouds scuttle in with the promise of showers.

Ten minutes later, I get access though not without an elderly woman lap dog on lap trying to cut in front of me. The consulting vet glares at me, "are you sure it's your turn."
 "I have an appointment," I mumble, "for quarter to ten," I add more forcefully. The woman is one of the many who have turned up without an appointment. She complains loudly. She has been there since the surgery opened. I arrived after her. She protests at the unfairness of it. This is just an everyday scene from my local vets' practice.

'Santa Pazienza' I think again, not yet knowing that this is the beginning of a very long morning which would try my patience to the limit. Let's say angry vets and skitty scared cats don't make for a good combination.

Patience is needed in all big cities. throughout the world.  But maybe more so, in Italian cities and towns: bureaucracy with its attendant queues in various government offices and institutions throughout the city, long lines in banks and post offices, queues backed up aisles in supermarkets where of the ten very efficient looking tills only two are open, and hours spent waiting for buses that are stuck in traffic are among the most obvious culprits. The bigger the city the more patience you will need. 

I remember the confusion the first time I tried to cash a cheque, getting paid directly on my account wasn't an option yet. I entered the bank after having been twice rejected by the security doors. I divested myself of all metal possible, put it in the locker provided and was allowed in. In those days employees could smoke at work. They were smoking. A cloud hung over the work stations. There seemed to be no obvious line. Just people waiting, chatting, filling in forms and complaining. As soon as a till freed up someone strode forwards to claim their turn. How did they know it was their turn? Elderly people seemed to claim priority: "I'm old. It's my turn." And they would nimbly rush up to do a half hour long transaction. I waited a long time and when I managed to get to the cashier it was to discover that I needed another document. I couldn't cash my cheque without it. I would have to return the next day.

Things have improved: banks and post offices have discoverd single file queues and ticketing systems. The advent of the internet and its increased use, while slower than in northern Europe, has also helped to reduce queues by allowing more and more basic transactions to be done online even though often on less-than-user-friendly websites as if making a process simple to accomplish were inconceivable.

Queues have been described as one of the twin plagues of modern day Italy (the second being mass unemployment). However, should anyone wish to avoid queues at government offices where one can wait hours to do the most basic of bureaucratic taskes they can always pay for the services of a professional queuer. For 10 euros an hour a professional queuer will stand in line.

Alas, professional queuers cannot be used everywhere. Buses and their lack of any semblance of an efficient timetable, especially in Rome with its bankrupt public transport and ineffective mayor (the joke goes that when she took office she googled: how to run Rome?) are sore points.

For the umpteenth time I stare down at the bus company app., called muoversiaroma (moving in Rome), a misnomer if ever there was one. The screen indicates 'no bus', there is nowhere to sit and the sun is beating down hard. There is no shade. I shake my head at the elderly woman with the walking stick who has asked me if I can give her an idea of when the bus will appear. I shrug.

"Santa Pazienza!" she mutters. Give me patience!

A walk in the centre of Rome - Part 2

I'm on the site of the ancient stadium of Domitian, Piazza Navona. The piazza is oval shaped as the race track would have been. It is encircled by buildings and churches with narrow roads leading to and from it. Along its sides there are numerous restaurants and cafès, most are best avoided. 

Except for the famous Tre Scalini, with its speciality of 'tartufo' ice-cream.The restaurant claims to have created a dessert known as 'Tartufo Tre Scalini' in 1946. It is made according to a secret recipe and includes 13 types of Swiss chocolate. The ice-cream dish it sells is different from the bland supermarket version. Its a lot heavier and more consistent with shaved rolls of dark chocolate in place of the cacao dusting and served with a healthy dollop of cream (panna) and a wafer. The tartufo ice-cream dessert actually originates from Pizo in Calabria.

As I amble around the old stadium I'm pestered by waiters calling out in English to entice me to their restaurants.

" Pizza?"

"Pasta?" It's only 11.30.

"Too early," I answer back in Italian, but they don't hear me, their gazes have turned to the next lot of passers-by.

I pass the shops that sell multicolored pasta and scented olive oil - the type of shops where only foreign tourists can be found - I head to the northern end of the Piazza. That famous balcony is adorned in flowers. I don't know who lives there but every year they put on a great floral show for the passers-by who care to lift their gaze above the piazza.

I've been told that most of the flats looking on to the piazza are owned by the Vatican and inhabited by visiting members of the clergy and aspiring priests. Long gone are the days of living in sparsely furnished cell like rooms. Or maybe it depends on which order they are affiliated.

I start my walk down the piazza at the Fountain of Neptune where a gull is enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame as tourists snap away.Despite the circling people the bird seems perfectly content, maybe digesting a filling meal from one of the many over-flowering rubbish tips, maybe enjoying the slight breeze.

I head towards the piazza's masterpiece, The Fountain of the Four Rivers, designed by Bernini to represent the four continents through their principal rivers: the Danube, the Nile, the Rio de la Plata and the Ganges. The four river gods are supported by Travertine rock from which rises an Egyptian obelisk bearing the emblem of the Pamphili family: a dove with an olive branch in its beak. The work was commissioned by Pope Innocent I in 1650 whose family palace overlooks the piazza.


The making of the fountain was controversial. Pope Innocent I used public money during a period of famine (1646 - 1648). Hand written protests, known as Pasquinades, were attached to the stone blocks used to make the fountain.

"We do not want Obelisks and Fountains. We want bread. Bread, bread, bread!" Innocent had the protesters arrested.


Rising beside the fountain and adjacent to Palazzo Pamphili is the Church of St. Agnese in Agone. Pope Innocent I is also behind its construction, built on the alleged site of St. Agnes martyrdom in the ancient stadium of Domitian.

It was begun in 1652, the original architects' design faced much criticism and they were replaced in 1653 by Borromini, Bernini's rival for papal commissions. The church, after having gone through a number of architects (Borromini resigned in 1657), was completed in 1672 and consecrated on 17 January of that same year

The oft repeated tale I heard when in 1997 I took my one and only guided tour of Rome was that the statue of the Nile river has an arm thrown up in horror to protect his eyes from the vision of the dome which had been built by Bernini's rival Borromini. Some suggest that it is fear, as if the powerful river god were afraid that the poorly built edifice would crumble on him. The tales are apocryphal.
The fountain predates the building of the church's façade. Therefore, rivals or not, Bernini could not have intentionally designed the river god in such a way as to sleight Borromini. 

I admire the façade of the church and the dove statues bearing their twigs, emblem of the Pamphili family said to represent peace and happiness. I amble past the Brazilian embassy and stand at the piazzas southern end beside the Fountain of the Moor, which like that of Neptune was designed by Giacomo della Porta in 1575. The original design included the dolphin and the four tritons. The central statue ,the Moor, was added in 1653 by Bernini.

Pamphili family emblem

The clouds which have accompanied this walk are beginning to clear and the temperature is rising. I head down a narrow alleyway towards the traffic-congested Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. I pass a picturesque trattoria. The translated menu, display of plastic food and waiters calling 'hello, hello! You want eat," mark it firmly as for tourists only. The food will be over-priced, unoriginal,bland and far from good but will conform to a lot of tourists expectations.

I cross Corso Vittorio in front of the Museo di Roma in Palazzo Braschi. I pause at the famous Il Fornaio on Via de' Baulari to gaze at the Nutella cakes and pistacchio cakes. I can't help wondering why the Nutella tortine are sold by the piece whereas the pistacchio tortine, of identical dimension are sold by the weight. A large mortadella sausage is exposed in the entrance, large slices are carved off for lunchtime panini or to bring home

Piazza Navona from its Southern end

Ahead I can make out the bustle of people going to and from Campo dei Fiori Rome's most central and well-known markets if not its best. There are too many tourists for that. Inevitably, I find stalls selling multi-coloured pasta shapes, multi-flavoured liqueurs, and scented olive oils. Among them are stalls selling seriously marked up vegetables and cheese.

They are prettily displayed but a tomato sold on the market at Campo dei Fiori will be the same as a tomato sold on the market in Garbatella. There are mountains of Parmesan atop the counter of a cheese stall though it turns out that the owner is from the Piedmont region of Italy. His cheeses seem to be the only genuinely artisanal product on the market. The rest is there for the tourists who have read about the market in their guide books. As I head towards the far end of the Campo past the vineria and a delicatessen I see stalls selling Roma T-shirts alongside tourist T-shirts and I love Rome bags. 

The bronze, hooded statue of Giordano Bruno rises above the canopies. Giordano Bruno was tortured by the Inquisition, convicted for heresy and executed by burning on Campo dei Fiori in 1600.

I consider a drink at one of the bars that surround the square. In the end, I leave. It's getting hotter and hotter and hotter, the morning breeze has stilled and the air is heavy and cloying. The campo is busy but other than a few market sellers playing at being colourful by shouting out their wares in Romanaccio this really is tourist only territory. It's sad that such an attractive part of Rome, in its bid to attract tourists, should have lost so much of its genuine appeal.

A walk in the centre of Rome

I alight on Largo Argentina, outside the Feltrinelli bookshop. This time I ignore the large bookshop and head up a narrow side alley to start my trek through the 'historic centre' an area that is hard to define.

The best way is to consider it as the area most visited by tourists away from the obvious trilogy of the Colosseum, Palatine and Roman forum. I'm staying well clear of those three today. I'm also ignoring the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps both part of any top ten on Rome.

I walk past the lavish shop which clothes the clergy that throng the streets, especially the Vatican area just a skip and a hop away on the notorious 64 and 40 bus lines. The windows offer up dazzling displays of golds and purples, cassocks, vestments and fascia amid various silver cups and gold platters. It's all rather gaudy and tasteless.

I cross a small piazza with a news kiosk that sells international magazines and newspapers, and walk past Piazza della Minerva. It is famous for the statue of an elephant carrying an obelisk. The statue was designed by Bernini and executed by an assistant, Ercole Ferrata. It has stood on Piazza della Minerva in front of the Church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva since 1667. In November 2016, vandals broke off a piece of the elephant's tusk, an act which outraged many. However, they left the broken piece behind and the statue was restored to its former beauty.

Walking past the little elephant I can see the dark bulk of the back of the pantheon. In the days when I used to work in the city centre I would often take my lunch break sitting on the small wall that ran behind it. I'd nibble on a rather bland sandwich, one of the tramezzini which look so tempting when viewed in their wrappers all smartly heaped on trays but turn out to be rather tasteless. I've never worked out why: maybe it's the too oily too white bread (it contains lard, so not for vegans or vegetarians), maybe it's the under seasoned fillings with always the same predictable combinations.

More often than not I'd have a wedge of excellent pizza bought from one of the few genuine 'pizza al taglio' shops in the centre. There used to be a small plain shop, on its white washed walls were various certificates of excellence that the owner had won. The selection of pizza was simple but genuine. Sadly, the elderly couple that ran the place have retired. 
I was dismayed to see that it had been replaced by one of those cheap and nasty food places that have begun to pop up all over the centre,  all bright colours and loud music, with large fridges filled with cardboard sandwiches, soggy salads and over-sweet fizzy drinks. it was all sold for far more than the elderly couple had ever charged for their humble slices of pizza. They rarely had more than six flavours going: pizza bianca and margherita being daily staples while the other flavours varied according to the season.

Sill thinking of Rita and Gianni's little pizza shop I walk past a hotel featured in 'The International' a silly thriller starring Clive Owen and Julia Roberts, partly set in Rome where every scene managed to trot out a cliché. I can see on the next corner Tazza D'Oro, a famed coffee bar which graces the pages of every single guidebook about Rome. In the film a scene had shown in the alley next to it a gaggle of nuns with fully starched dazzling white wimples walking four abreast, just the type of scene one rarely really comes across.

I'm now on Piazza della Rotonda in front of the Pantheon, a truly amazing feat of ancient architecture which has survived intact to this day partly because of its conversion to a church in 609AD and partly because of the building materials used, akin to today's cement.
Today's version of the Pantheon was designed by the Emperor Hadrian and the architect Apollodorus of Damascus in 120AD. He ended up being executed by the emperor over a dispute about the building. The original pantheon, an altogether simpler edifice,was built on this site to honor the mythological founder of Rome, Romulus.

The most amazing thing about the Pantheon is its dome (43,30 metres in diameter) with a hole in the middle (7,8 meters in diameter) - the oculus - the eye of the Pantheon.

For Pentecost, a religious festivity celebrating the descent of the holy spirit to the disciples of Jesus, tens of thousands of rose petals are dropped through the oculus onto the floor of the pantheon 43 metres below
The portico is supported by 16 Corinthian columns each weighing  60 tons. They were taken from Egypt and transported via barges and ships to Rome. The triangular pediment above bears an inscription attributing the pantheon to Marcus Agrippa. It is the only remaining part of an earlier incarnation of the building which Hadrian left as a tribute to his predecessor.

On the beautiful piazza in front of the pantheon is the Fontana del Pantheon built by Giacomo della Porta in 1575. The design was modified in 1711 to include a different basin and the marcutio obelisk (dating from Ramses II) on a plinth surrounded by four dolphins

Nowadays, the piazza is always crowded with tourists taking photos, or having an overpriced snack at one of the many bars that fill the piazza. If you are visiting the Pantheon on a hot summer day, you will find in front of the fountain, one of Rome's 2000 drinking fountains fitted with two large spouts, known as 'nasoni', big noses.

Fill up your water bottles or have a drink at the fountain. The water is fresh, piped in from Bracciano Lake. If the Summer is very hot, and water levels in the lake are falling then the 'nasoni' are switched off. Though some nasoni are never switched off.

If you feel like splashing out, and you will here, trust me, you can sit at one of the terraces and order an over-priced beverage and snack, and enjoy for a while one of Rome's most magnificent sites. Just watch out for those selfie sticks!

I don't like to dawdle and the piazza is getting crowded. it's just an hour or so until tourists with their McDonald's takeouts, pre-wrapped sandwiches and sodas encamp themselves on the shallow steps that lead up to the fountain. I head off the piazza, on Via Giustiniani alongside the palazzo of the same name. It's a building I once knew well as I would get lost in its labyrinth of corridors looking for my students' offices.

Every Wednesday morning at 10 am I would head up to Doctor (Dottore) Lanzi's office. He was a slim, elegant man, well-turned out. He looked as if he could have have been cast as an oily mafia lawyer in a movie. He was well-mannered but there was a palpable sense of distress the day I arrived for the weekly lesson and it coincided with the British football team taking on the Brazilian one in a World Cup semi final. Didn't I want to watch my team play?, he inquired. I didn't. I stayed silent. Maybe I could teach him the relevant football vocabulary?, he suggested. I nodded. The next hour was spent comfortably seated on Dr. Lanzi's sofa, in front of his large TV screen watching the game. It also turned out he knew far more about football than I did.

On another occasion, I arrived and found him with his arm in a plaster cast. Gone was the smart expensive looking suit replaced by the type of knit wear a poorly sighted great aunt might have bought him. He was unshaven and distraught. Not only had he broken his arm on the annual skiing holiday by slipping on a patch of ice but his wife had broken her leg, actually skiing, and needed an operation on her knee. It somehow made him more approachable as a person. As a nice coda, years after I'd stopped working for the senate he phoned me. He needed a teacher for his teenage children. I was unavailable but passed him and his children on to a colleague.

I strode past the entrance to the building, thinking of the vast labyrinth of its corridors, stair wells and lifts which never seemed to end up in the right place. I saw its glass-fronted entrance-booth where I would leave my passport every time I entered the building, then pass under a metal detector while my bag was scanned. They don't muck about with security in a country which has had over the years many terrorist attacks, mostly of the homegrown variety.

I came out of the little alley onto the back of Palazzo Madama, yet another building that belongs to the Senate and in front of the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi which is noted for containing three Caravaggio's about the life of st. Matthew: The Calling of St. Matthew, The Inspiration of St. Matthew and The martyrdom of St. Matthew. To see  them in the darkened chapel at the back of the Church you must insert a coin into a box and a timed light flares up, like an old fashioned gas meter.

I know Caravaggio was supposed to be a dodgy chap, a murderer but I do like his work. Anyone wanting their fill of Caravaggio should head up to the Galleria Borghese after this. But that's not my destination.

I head down another narrow alley between the Church of San Luigi dei Francesi and Palazzo Madama and its entrance where once-upon-a-time I had an argument with one of the entrance lackeys. I'd presented him with a Belgian ID card (dual nationality possessor am I) but he refused it as a 'non-valid document.' I argued that I could travel abroad with it. He wasn't having any of it. He needed my passport. Eventually, he phoned my student, the head of a comission. From where I was standing all I could hear was an increasing chorus of chastened: ''Si, Dottore" ,"Certo, Dottore", "Si, Dottore." I was ushered into the quite phenomenal corridors of power. The lackey did have the last word:"next time bring a passport."

I walk on and out onto Corso Rinascimento. To my left rises the imposing facade of Palazzo Madama but I'm going on, across the road to Piazza Navona... (t.b.c)