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.

Holiday preparations

It had to happen. For weeks the state of denial persisted. Adamant: "No. We are not closing down."


First, the pet food disappeared, then the wine, followed by the toilet paper and kitchen roll, then the eggs went away, returned and departed for good. The shelves emptied. Nothing was replaced. The cold compartment dwindled from three fridges to one as cheeses, butter, yoghurts, fresh pasta was sold.


Still the denial continued. "It's just a small problem with the suppliers." But there were concerned looks on the faces of the shop assistants. One dramatic morning the meat fridge was emptied and its contents ferried out to a waiting truck.


 "No more meat," observed one of the assistants.


"They said our jobs were guaranteed," said another.


 A supermarket that specialised in a limited supply of vegetables and fruit as well as water wasn't going to last. I had no choice but to swich allegiance.


The tolls of doom appeared with the notices: "this concern will be closed on Sundays throughout the month of August." Then the following week: "we are closing tomorrow. "The shutters came down. It had been inevitable.


I returned to my old supermarket to note that for a discount it wasn't half bad. There was a new pizza counter, the bread counter was bigger and the deli counter improved. The vegetables, they claimed, all came directly from the farm. Malicious tongues wondered where the farm was, and had it had any fallout from the highly toxic factory fire in Pomezia a couple of months ago.


The supermarket still had its plethora of rules, now played out at regular intervals over the tannoy: "It is severely forbidden to use personal shopping bags or trolleys," "Gloves must be worn to pick fresh produce in the fruit and veg department, " All fresh produce will be weighed again at the check out till." "Taking photos is strictly prohibited."....


There to enforce the rules and trail the gypsies as they do their shopping is the security guard Mahmoud. I had a run in with Mahmoud a couple of years back when I'd entered the supermarket with a plastic bag containing cat food of a brand not even sold on the premises. He ordered me to put the offending item in one of the lockers. I retorted I was only getting a bottle of wine, I'd take less than a minute and I wasn't going to comply. Just as well Mahmoud's a gentle giant, he didn't stop me. or maybe he thought I was crazy.


August is the month when a lot of Italians head off to the sea or the mountains. In preparation for their travels they usually go shopping and stock up on their favourite produce from their local shops. It would seem that not only are they suspicious of foreign food (it's well-known here that French food is inedible and as for English food...you don't even want to start on that) but also of the food of other regions.


Hence, I wait in the check-out queue, for the umpteenth time, behind a family piling on 10 kilos of potatoes, bag after bag of pasta and tin after tin of tomato sauce alongside three family packs of factory-farmed chicken,, a bottle of olive oil, followed by jumbo  packs of bottled water.

Food for the holidays?

None of the produce they are buying is hard to find in any other region of Italy or original or particularly interesting. Yet, when they head off on holiday a sizeable part of their boot will be full of food from the local supermarket. Of course, there may also be a financial concern. Maybe the food from home is cheaper than what they'll find elsewhere?


A colleague, Rachel found herself going on holiday with an Italian family: her son was friends with their son and somehow they'd got invited to her families summer house in the South of France. They turned up ready for the trip with a bootful of Italian food:pasta, tomatoes etc.... They were worried that they wouldn't be able to find pasta in France.


Upon arrival, the wife of the family busied herself in the kitchen. Water was boiled and pasta thrown in. Rachel's husband had stopped off at a French supermarket to stock up.


"I haven't come to France to eat pasta," said Rachel's husband, as he snapped off a piece of baguette, opened a pack of foie gras and dolloped a large blob of it on his bread. Rachel, in the meantime, opened the various cheese confections and whipped up a simple salad.


The husband of the Italian family looked from his plate of 'pasta in bianco', to the feast that was being laid down, while his son hungrily made a grab for some baguette and foie gras only to be rebuked by his mother. Did he want a stomache ache? Did he? No, he didn't.


"Would you like some wine," a bottle of rosé Cotes de Provence was placed on the table.


"We've got our wine here. We brought some Frascati with us," said the Italian wife.


"This is chilled."


But such was their suspicion of the strange French food and wine, they refused.