Full as an egg

My flatmate, Sally, was back. The door to the flat slammed shut behind her and she dropped her suitcase in the corridor while fumbling for the key to her bedroom. She was as graceful as an elephant. 

I prepared myself for the imminent onslaught of words that would pour down the moment I asked, “how was Umbria?”

Two hours later she paused to breath. “Let’s go down and get some pizza,” I suggested. 

A ‘Pizza al Taglio’ (pizza by the slice) takeaway had recently opened at the foot of the building. We were eating our way through the various types of pizza. 

Early evening, and the small takeaway was packed. We jostled our way to the head of the mass of people gathered around the display case.  What was today’s selection?

The ubiquitous Pizza Margherita (basil, tomato sauce and mozzarella) nestled close to its pal, the Pizza Bianca. This last was a favourite of harried mothers who, not having had time to prepare a snack for their offspring, would rush in grab a small slice. Other combinations beckoned us: rocket and cherry tomatoes, sausages and broccoli, prawns and ice-berg lettuce, fried zucchini and cheese, pecorino and pepper (cacio pepe), tuna and onions, a never-ending colourful display. It was a feast for the eyes.

To the left of the selection of pizzas was a large tray with suppli (fried rice balls), olive ascolane (meat stuffed and fried in batter olives), baccala (fried cod) and that international favourite, chips. We pointed at what we wanted, debated the size of the slices and headed back to our flat with two large boxes.

The ancient lift creaked and groaned its way up to our floor and our boxes emitted a mouth- watering scent. Once inside we ravenously threw ourselves on our slices. Sally continued her tale of Umbria. I topped up our glasses with a Frascati white wine – I know Romans say only beer should be drunk with pizza but personally I find that a little heavy.

Sally grabbed another slice and talked on. She picked an olive ascolana. Then paused. I looked up, paying attention again. She put down the slice and announced “sono piena come un uovo.” She rubbed her stomach to underline her words. I raised an eyebrow. I was beginning to feel stuffed. 

“I’m full as an egg,” she translated. I nodded. It made sense, after all what could be fuller than an egg with its albumen and yolk? 

So it was Sally who introduced me to the expression. Barely a week later the young man who had told her the expression was sitting opposite me at a table in our local restaurant. She had met him while sketching a street in a quaint Umbrian hillside town. As he polished off his fourth panna cotta in a row, a feat that was making me sweat in sympathy, he pronounced, well-satisfied, “sono pieno come un uovo.”

It has over the years been a useful expression. However, I would like to sound a note of caution when using it, especially for  women. If you say : “sono piena,” your audience may think you are pregnant. 

Though as faux-pas go, it’s not as bad as a friend  who in the early stages of learning Italian, to a table full of Italians, announced, as she sucked on a juicy fig, “Mi piace tanto la figa.”  She thought she had said that she liked figs. The horrified and amused looks of the assembled indicated otherwise. A fig in Italian is masculine and is figo.  As for the other word, I’ll let you look it up.

Roman cats

Bud likes to stalk a pigeon. He does this from inside the flat. The pigeon he stalks is a return visitor, it's acquired a taste for dried cat food. Bud crouches down low as Mr Pigeon pecks at the food in my older cat's bowl on the balcony. The old girl is usually asleep on the balcony. Even when she moves, the pigeon just lazily flutters away. She isn't a menace. 

Bud makes clicking sounds and glares at the pigeon from the safety of the kitchen. It is after all a very big pigeon.

Both Bud and Kitty are of Roman street cat stock. Kitty came to me from the famed cat sanctuary on Largo Argentina in the centre of Rome whereas Bud was abandoned with his siblings in a cardboard box outside a pet shop in the San Lorenzo district of the city. A friend knew I was looking for a kitten and so I got him aged all of six weeks. 

Whenever I visit Roman ruins I always marvel at the cats running about in their magnificent playgrounds jumping from ancient column to ancient stone, running beneath the arches of the aqueducts and reclining in the ruined atrium of an ancient domus.

Sleeping where it can

 

The most beloved cat sanctuary is on Largo di Torre Argentina. Here, back in 44BC, the dictator, Julius Caesar was murdered . Today around 150 stray cats are housed and cared for in a 100 square metre storage room beneath the street and next to the ruins of four ancient temples.

The site was excavated in 1927 following the discovery of a colossal marble head and arms. The large underground chambers that were revealed became a favourite place for the city strays to seek refuge. The cats were fed by a succession of 'gattare' - cat ladies - one of whom was the actress, Anna Magnani who, on breaks from rehearsals at the nearby Teatro Argentina, would stop by the sanctuary to feed and pet the cats. 

By 1993, the amount of cats had grown to such an extent there was too much work for the lone gattara. Two women, Livia and Silvia joined forces and over time with the help of generous donations have built the sanctuary up into what it is today.

They have faced problems, the latest being eviction from the site when it was claimed the shelter had invaded a temple and offended the dignity of the Area Sacra. 

It all came to a head as the archaeological authorities launched a campaign in National papers to turn public opinion against the sanctuary and  politicians stepped forward in defense of the sanctuary. Over 30,000 petitions were collected and the sanctuary was safe.

In 2013, one of the founders, Lia passsed away. Today, there are 150 cats. They and their helpers are still squatters and the underground chamber which houses the shelter is not connected to the city sewers. 

Other famous colonies are those at the Protestant cemetary behind Piramide and at the Verano cemetary where an estimated 500 cats frolic among the tombs.

All over the city there are areas set up with boxes and bowls  for the many strays that live in Rome. The gattare often private citizens or members of voluntary organisations work hard to make sure the cats are well-fed and sterilised. There are an estimated 400 colonie feline (feline colonies) on Roman territory.

 


Many condominium housing complexes also have a cat or mini-colonies that help with the problem of rats. The cats and their gattare, according to a survey mainly middle aged women, are important to the city. And while some people choose to see the street cats as little more than vermin of a similar ilk to pigeons and rats, others realise the important part they play in the city.

Rome just wouldn't be Rome without its cats.

Street cats who got lucky.

September: Bentornati

September tends to come as a relief. Finally, after almost three months holiday the children return to school. Or as a neighbour put it, "the grand-parents can breathe again." As so many parents work children are ferried from relatives to relatives in an effort to keep them busy, or for the very little ones, find someone who can take care of them. Thus a far from unusual sight in the parks in summer is an elderly man or woman pushing a stroller or over-seeing some toddlers at play. 

But September also means a return to normal schedules. All shops are open, most people are back at work and in the second week the kids return to school. Everything starts up again.

Waiting for the bus on my first day of work, I noted how after the summer nothing had really changed: the bus shelter smelled of piss, discarded garments littered the pavement, the gutter was full of (already) autumnal leaves, and the bus was taking an age to pass.

By the end of the day, an end-of-summer storm, a burst of wind and rain, had temporarily cooled down temperatures .The accumulation of leaves and rubbish in the gutters had helped to flood some of the city's major arteries and closed down parts of the underground. A weekend later a repeat performance caused identical damage with the mayor of the city blaming the trees for the flooding. Nobody it seems pointed out to her that were the streets and sewers regularly cleaned flooding was avoidable. On the postive side, the threatened water rationing never happened. Two summer storms were enough to push off the rationing to another day.

September means work again, it means schedules again, it means life parceled off into hours. It's a long haul 'til the next holidays!


 

Ferragosto - more than a day

Once upon a time, a large capital city known for its glorious past, would shut-down for an entire month. That's right: the whole month!  And in the middle of that month was a day: a holiday. This was the day of Ferragosto, on the 15th of August. It also happened to coincide with a major event in the Catholic calendar: the Assumption of Mary.

I was yet again stuck in Rome for Ferragosto. As I left my flat to walk the dog I noted that the small supermarket at the foot of the building was open, so was another one up the road. I crossed over the Via Cristoforo Colombo, one of the large arteries in and out of Rome, and saw that it was busy.

 During my walk I remembered my first Ferragosto. It had been almost surreal. Not a soul on the streets, empy car parks, all shops and supermarkets closed, maybe a bar open, the kind that has five bottles of alcohol half empty on a dusty shelf with an aging coffee machine and glasses so old that no matter how often they are cleaned they remain cloudy with the patina of eons of lime scale. It was so silent I could hear the mosquitoes buzz.

Today was a different affair. In the age of austerity, people can no longer afford month long breaks. Supermarkets and grocery stores were open. Bars were doing business. People were about. And those cars on the Colombo, were full of people heading to the beach for their one day off. The sixteenth they would be back in the office.

The Ferriae Augusti (Festivals of the Emperor Augustus) date back to ancient times. These festivals celebrated the end of harvest, the vinalia for the grape harvest and the Consualia in honour of harvest and stored grain, and it provided a long period of rest known as the Augustali. Hence August became the holiday month.

The tradition of going on a trip over Ferragosto arose under the fascist regime. Citizens of a lower social class were give the possibility of one-day or three-day trips either to the sea, the mountains or a cultural city such as Florence or Rome. For many it would have been the first time they got to go out of their home town.

New bridge, Garbatella, Ferragosto

Nowadays, while the children still get their three months summer holidays, from the first days of June til around the tenth of September, a challenge for any parent trying to find ways of keeping them busy, most adults cannot afford more than a couple of weeks. The off-spring are farmed out to grand-parents and summer camps, the parents meet them at weekends and over Ferragosto most will take their holiday, but for many who no longer have their summer retreat by the sea or in the mountains, it is a break in the city with day trips out or picnics in the park.

Of course, some like to ignore this change in habits possibly because it suits them to do so. The Roman public transport company, ATAC, maintains that once schools are closed for the summer they can implement their two-phase summer schedule, for which there used to be published timetables. This year at bus stops which exhibit timetables the unuseful sign has gone up 'line timetable being established.' I like to think of the summer scheduling as: first phase: buses leave when drivers want to drive them; second phase, in August: who knows when the bus'll turn up. As one bus driver wryly put it: "unfortunately most of the 'dirigente' (managers) still think we're in the sixties. They see no need to change things."

Once upon a time, Romans could afford to take a month off. Today, even taking the day off for some has become difficult, though others still maintain that Ferragosto lasts at least a week.

Furbizia - a way of life

Sally came into the kitchen where I was chopping up zucchini for the sauce that would go with my pasta. I’d bought farfalle, butterflies, my favourite shape. 

She announced “there’s no word for liar in Italian.” I paused, knife suspended in mid-air. This didn’t seem plausible. I also guessed she had had some kind of disagreement with her new, and already on the wane boyfriend, Carlo.

It had all started out so idyllically. They’d met at one of the army bases where we were teaching conscripts. It was, in fact, the last year when military service would be compulsory. The poor boys didn’t want to be there nor did they want to be taught English. We got the feeling that the army i.e. the Italian state, therefore the tax payer, was footing the bill for these lessons because they really had no idea how to keep the boys occupied, other than cleaning weapons and running laps.

 

Carlo had approached her at lunch time and invited her to the officers’ canteen for lunch. He extolled the qualities of the food, it was the best army mensa in the capital. He was joking. The food was prepared by the conscripts, most of whom couldn’t cook.

He then invited her to his place for a ‘proper dinner.’ He made pasta with tuna, lemon and parsley. It has since become a summer favourite. He then took her to the famous keyhole up on the Aventine, and sealed the deal with a rose bought from one of the semi-permanently encamped rose sellers.

I continued chopping, and drizzled some oil into the frying pan. I set it on low. No word for liar? That couldn’t be right, I thought while Sally filled me in on the latest argument.

It wasn’t. I don’t know which dictionary she was using, but it turned out that there are as many words for liar as there are in most Western languages (to my knowledge).

Verb: mentire (to lie); Personal noun: bugiardo/bugiarda (liar); Dire una bugia (tell a lie); Una bugia bianca (a white lie) etc….

However, as things eventually ended up Carlo was more furbo than bugiardo. This concept ‘essere furbo’ had me baffled. It seemed negative yet solicited admiration. Being 'furbo' or 'furba' seems to be approved as a necessary 'quality' to get by in hard (and not so hard) times.

In my first flat,  our landlady at that time, the Signora Bulgarelli, charged rent on a 4-week basis, thus ekking out a thirteenth month of rent. When I told an Italian acquaintance this she nodded, smiled and commented “molto furba la Signora.” I could only deduce from her attitude that this was a good thing, and erroneously guessed, that in Italy everyone charged thirteen month’s rent. It was the furba thing to do.

 Furbo/furba translates as smart or clever but also cunning, crafty, shrewd or sly, depending on the situation and who it is being applied to. The expression 'fare il furbo' means to jump a queue. And, 'non fare il furbo' means "Don't try to get smart with me."

My second landlady, in my basement flat, decided one day to charge me for the annual servicing of the gas meter. I didn’t know it was something owners and not tenants paid so handed over twenty euros. Again, this was an example of furbizia, coupled to the fact that she’d got one up on someone who wasn’t in the know, an ingenuous foreigner. 

There is a saying “L’Italia è il paese dei furbi.” Italy is the land of the sly, crafty or shrewd.

La furbizia goes from the trivial such as the person who manages to slip in front of you in a queue (usual, and sometimes legitimate, excuses: I’m old; I’ve only got two items; I’m with my son, he’s 5 years old; I’m pregnant; my dog is waiting outside; I’m double-parked etc….) to the more serious such as getting an indemnisation for an invented invalidity (the financial police have nabbed blind people driving, for instance, or tetraplegics re-tiling roofs); or employing people without legal documents or paying them proper (if at all) wages; or renting 'in nero'. Pulling one over on the system has 'furbi' kudos, or so it would seem.

 Added to that are the legions of raccomandati  (the recommended) that take up office space with their jobs for life that they got because daddy is the boss or daddy is best pals with the boss but they didn’t actually have any qualifications pertinent to the job, or did get their university degree after ten years at university, eternally postponing exams. Most offices have at least one fanullone ( a do-nothing). Again they are the furbi, they have a job for life without trying and without having to do anything for it.

 Admirable, isn’t it?

Well, no, it isn’t.  

To quote (my translation) an esteemed Italian journalist and wit, Pezzolini: Italy goes on because of the ‘stupid’ people, ‘I fessi’. These people work, pay and die. Those who give the impression that they are making Italy work are the ‘furbi’, they don’t do anything, they spend a lot and they have a good time.” He also added that he was with the ‘fessi’.

 “L’Italia va avanti perché ci sono I fessi. I fessi lavorano, pagano, crepano. Chi fa la figura di mandare avanti l’Italia sono i furbi, che non fanno nulla, spendono e se la godono.”

It had little to do with intelligence, according to Pezzolini. It was more a question of the 'fessi' having principles and the 'furbi' having aims.

 As for Carlo, Sally's boyfriend, he was as 'furbo' as they come, he had a 'fidanzata' (long -standing girlfriend) back in his hometown of Modena.

The palaces on the hill

On a hot July day I decided to make a much belated return trip to the Palatine hill. My first visit had been in 1997 when both the Colosseum and the Fori Imperiali were open to all and only the Palatine required a 12,000 Lire entrance fee. Times have changed and now a 12 Euro entrance fee will gain visitors access to all three sites over a 48-hour time frame.

I got there early-ish, nine fifteen, the excavations open at eight thirty, but there wasn't a queue. On entering I turned left, a direct response to seeing everyone else who entered turn right. Why follow the crowd if I could have the place to myself?

I paused by an imposing arch of the Acqua Claudia acqueduct, the prime source of water to this palatial hill and thought, "we've met before, good to see you again." The most imposing remains of the Acqua Claudia are in the park of the acqueducts. 

I ignored the steps that indicated a short-cut to the top of the hill and followed the path. I paused at the entrance to the Palace of Septimius Severus.  It's the huge arched structure that overlooks the Circus Maximus.

 I had paused because of a very modern installation, block red capitals that proclaimed "Death to the Monument." It was to be the first of many such installations of contemporary art gathered under an exhibition entitled "Para tibi, Roma,nihil" (Nothing compares to you, Rome). 

Looking it up later I learnt that areas normally closed to the public had been opened to accomodate the event. But I was baffled. And, at many future encounters with these exhibits, would continue to be. Old -fashioned TVs and mobile phones, a gate with cans on each spike, a Roman statue with a cement block in place of the head?...while I was sure the artists were trying to convey a message it wasn't getting through to me.

These installations were but a mild distraction. I'd come to see the ruins of Domitian's stadium, Octavian (Augustus) and Livia's palace, the Farnesian gardens....

 I wandered throught the arcades of the palace of Septimius into the remains of the stadium of Domitian which was not really enhanced by the LOSER exhibit. It showed varying colours depending on where one stood.

Opposite this exhibit some steep steps led towards a view point over the Circus Maximus and the rather dull modern FAO edifice in the distance. On the way down I took a photo of the Colosseum through the umbrella pines and bushes the light already glowing white in the increasing heat.

I followed a bus load of recently arrived Spanish tourists towards the house of Livia and Augustus. They took a right towards the Palatine museum so I went left and found myself overlooking an area I'd explored earlier, the lower area of the Domus Augustana.

 Augustus was the first of the great Roman emperors. He was described by the Suetonius as "unusually handsome and exceedingly graceful at all periods of his life, though he cared nothing for personal adornment." His residence on the Palatine fit well into this description, it was large but not palatial.

"... was remarkable neither for size nor elegance, having but short colonnades with columns of Alban stone, and rooms without any marble decorations or handsome pavements. For more than forty years too he used the same bedroom in winter and sumer." (Suetonius) He had planned to extend it and bought up land adjacent but in the end he built a Temple to Apollo.

His wife Livia whom he married in 38BC was described by Tacitus as "an imperious mother, she was an accomodating wife, and an excellent match for the subtleties of her husband and the insincerity of her son." She turned a blind eye to her husband's many infidelities and was an ambitious plotter implicated,according to rumour, in the murders of Augustus' grandsons, so that her son, Tiberius, could succeed Augustus. The more likely causes of their deaths were disease. Some say she murdered Augustus "...smeared some poison on figs that were still on trees from which Augustus was wont to gather the fruit with his own hands: then she ate those that had not been smeared, offering the poisoned ones to him." She was certainly not a favourite of the ancient chroniclers. Livia survived Augustus by 15 years, dying at the age of 86.

Up on the top of the hill, in an area with little shade I was getting thirsty.  I hadn't brought a bottle of water with me, not smart, and now that the sun was hitting hard and harsh I could almost feel my body being sucked dry. My shoulders were turning an interesting shade of red. I'd left the sun cream behind as well.

I headed towards the Palatine museum, partly to see the collection, partly to see if I could get some water.  It houses some of the statues, reliefs and frescoes that have been excavated on the hill but the bulk of the collection is in the Capitoline museum. However, it was nice to walk through an air-conditioned space and watch a small documentary on the origins of Rome and how the original settlements would have been built. There was no water to be had. 

I consulted my map, the sweat trickling down my back was making me uncomfortable. I located a water fountain and backtracked. A wasp tried to prevent me from drinking. It wasn't successful. 

Refreshed, I walked towards the houses of Augustus and Livia but they were closed to the public and only opened for special tours. Or, had I booked, and known about it beforehand, with a 4 euro extra fee, I could have gone in and seen the renowned frescoes.

I wandered around, up and down alleys, some paved with the large blocks of Roman stones, others just dirt tracks covered in pine needles and browning leaves, and garnered some interesting information by eaves-dropping on tour guides, when they were speaking a language I recognised.

All in all managed to learn a thing or two. For instance, in an old house built by the Farnese Cardinal, Mussolini would bring his mistress for some fun, though I imagine he still kept the light on in his office on Piazza Venezia so that passers-by would be believe he was hard at work. And maybe he was!

the dictator's trysting spot

I stopped by the most ancient area of the hill, the site where the alleged founders, those of the she-wolf suckling legend,Romulus and Remus, built the original huts and thus set the foundations for one of the "most important and most beautiful" cities in the world. I am, of course, quoting my Roman friends, many of whom have never visited the Palatine, the Fori Imperiali or the Colosseum.

The last part of my visit was the 'Orti Farnesiani' - the Farnesian gardens and summer house with its magnificent views over the Fori Imperiali. 

The gardens were created in 1550 by the Cardinal Alessandro Farnese. Today not much remains of what may well have been one of the first botanical gardens. 

View from the Gardens of Farnese

  
I'd been walking for two hours as I descended the steps from the Casina Farnese - long ago both wings would have had domes on them.

I knew it was time for me to leave when a tourist urged me to 'stop,stop' as she took a picture of a posing friend. I felt like hissing, "it's digital, you can delete." The heat was getting to me. Just as well the Palatine hill rules banned selfie sticks!