Along the Tiber

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Il gasometro

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

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



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

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

Ponte dell'industria

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

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

Under Ponte San Paolo

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

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

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

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

Ponte Sublicio

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

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

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

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

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

Ponte Palatino

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

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






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

L'isola Tiberina and Ponte Cestio

 

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

Viva la musica!!

"Oudooey"
I nodded. It was a band I had never heard of. I turned to the next person.
"Si. Anch'io. oudooey."
I was perplexed. The young man saw my expression. 
"The big, grande, group from Irlanda. Con Bono."
I shook my head. It wasn't ringing any bells.

"Irrem," was the next answer. 
I repeated, "Irrem?" 
"Si, from America."
"An American group?"
"Si, famosissime, verrry famous."

My gaze turned onto the last student in the class.
"The Queen," he said. 
I looked at him , "the queen doesn't sing."
"Ma si, The Queen. Freddie Merrcurrrry."
"Queen."
"si, the Queen."

I had just asked my students what their favourite group was. 

I hadn't realised then (about 15 years ago when U2 and REM were huge) just how much was translated. Even the French, strong proponents of translating everything try to say 'you two,' albeit with a strong French accent for U2.

Over the years, erroneous translations have led to some bizarre conversations. 

To wit:

"There were the  bitches on the Tiber Island."
I registered the word. "Bitches. As  in female dogs? How could you tell?" 
Strange look from student, " No, bitches, you know."
" Female dogs."
"No, women," he whispered, a shade red in hue.
"Malicious women? How did you know? How could you tell?"
He shifted in his seat, bright red by now, "they wear the shorts."
"Ahhhh." The penny dropped. Like the women who line the Via Salaria or the Cristoforo Colombo at night.

A too close attention to the translation of 'figlio di puttana' as 'son of a bitch' had led my student to the wrong conclusion that a puttana and a bitch were one and the same. 

Or pity the student when faced with a test said "ma questa é la prova?"
My confident "yes," reassured him. I had understood the French meaning 'une épreuve' for 'prova' ( a test) he had meant, a mock test. He handed in an incomplete paper and turned up the following week with a confident, "I'm ready now. I've studied." He had failed already.

And for a while I couldn't understand why so many students were going on holiday to 'Monaco', in my mind, a rather small principality most famous for its casino and Grace Kelly. It turned out they were talking about 'Monaco di Baviera' aka Munich.

That was years ago when my Italian was shakier than it is now.

 But every now and again, as I deal with language, a pearl turns up, such as the young student who recently in an essay wrote "hand jobs are rare nowadays." 
Go figure what he really meant!

 

 

Mi garba Garbatella

The tip of my nose is cold. Strange. My dog is nestled against me. The old cat is on the pillow.  I glance at the clock and hazard an arm out from under the duvet. It's cold. It's also 8 o'clock and the centralised heating has been on for two hours. To little effect, or so it would seem. My bedside clock indicates 14°C. So for the first time this winter the temperature outside has dipped below zero.

I get dressed quickly. In Scandinavia in the winter they get temperatures of minus 20 but the houses and flats are a balmy 20°C. In Rome at the first whiff of colder weather (it never gets that cold despite what some people might think) and the heating system demonstrates just how useless it is.

Maybe a coat for the dog today? We head out towards Garbatella and the farmers' market where I can get a week's supply of fresh vegetables and some of that delicious Lariano bread, perfect for making bruschette or bread soup, or some fresh, stuffed pasta. The thought of fresh lemon ricotta ravioli or pumpkin almond tortelli buoys me on. 

 We cross the mighty artery that is the Cristoforo Colombo, every junction has a commemorative plaque or some flowers, testimony to how dangerous the traffic can be. Last year, on this very spot, a cyclist was knocked off his bike by a bus. The cyclist was on the cycle lane but the driver of the bus never saw him. A white bicycle attached to some railings is all that remains to remember a life.

I pass in front of a juggler, even in this chilly weather he is trying to coax a few coins from the jaded motorists waing for the light to turn green. We walk past the great ugly 'Regione Lazio' building - scene of a scandal or two over the years and where from time to time lacklustre demonstrations are staged. 

Just past the roundabout, a man warns me to be careful. There are gypsies with a nasty dog that he says could attack my dog. I thank him for the warning. Fortunately, I'm not going in the direction he has indicated.

 Piazza delle Sette Chiese, part of the pilgrim trail, is quiet this early. A man is feeding some pigeons who flutter around him. The birds swoop, dive, nip and jab at each other as they come in for a crumb. We walk past him into the old part of Garbatella with its project units known as 'lotto'. On the buildings the original stones still mark which number 'lotto' they belong to.

The area was built in the 1920s, the first stone was laid by King Victor Emmanuel in 1918 on Piazza Benedetto Brin.

 Each lotto is made up of several buildings grouped around a common yard or garden. All the families in the 'lotto' could meet if they so wished in these common shared grounds - they were also known as Case Popolare, the rents were cheap.

Today, the cachet of the area has changed. From its origins as a rather seedy area associated with lowlifes and criminals ( as the crow flies it is close to the infamous 'Magliana' district)  it has become trendy. It is seen as an enviable place to live.  Rents have sky-rocketed especially since the closure of the old 'mercati generali'. A popular TV series 'I Cesaroni' depicting the travails of the Cesaroni family, is set here.

The modern area of Garbatella surrounds the large road, Circonvallazione Ostiense, which since a new bridge was built over the metro tracks, links up with the Via Ostiense and thence towards the south of the city. Along this main thoroughfare are all the principal shops and restaurants as well as Garbatella market. Behind the market, towards the train tracks, is a large hangar which houses EATALY a shop and series of restaurants dedicated to promoting Italian food.

On my way to the farmers' market I always pass a curious structure it's a primary school. Four large eagles perched atop indicate its fascist origins. It and the rectangular piazza on which it stands, Piazza Damiano Sauli, were built in the 1930s. 

At  the end of the road, I go down some battered steps littered with broken beer bottles among the weeds. The round structure in front of me is covered in street art and graffitti, the Roman wolf adorns one wall, a clear reminder, as if I needed one, that Garbatella is indeed the true heartland of the Roma (football) fan.  

I go up one of the side ramps into the edifice, a round high ceilinged room which has been partitioned off with large cheerful panels indicating farmer's market. When I discovered this market, at the beginning of 2015, it was seldom busy but it has been found by others. 

There are so many people the sound of their talk is echoing off the vaulted ceiling. My favourite vegetable stall is heaving with produce: large dark green savoy cabbages, cauliflowers, chard, artichokes...... The woman who runs it is running about filling brown paper bags, weighing and toting it up. She's busy. At the goat cheese and truffle counter, a few people are trying some samples. 
 
  I get what I need and head out down past the grandly named, it is an imposing structure, Pallladium Theatre. It also dates to the 1930s. The architect was inspired by ancient Roman architecture. Sadly, due to lack of funds the theatre has had to close down. We loop back up the hill towards the 'Regione Lazio' building. 

 We pass more of the 'lotto' , some of the edifices within are grand, others are smaller. Laundry is draped out of windows on wires to dry in the cold breeze. "Sunday, laundry day", I think.  A wall I see has it's top bricks painted in yellow and red, the Roma football team colours of course. 

Piazza delle Sette Chiese is now bustling with life. Mass is over and the congregation has spilled out onto the square. Children are kicking a ball around, dogs are baying at each other, the 'Pizza al Taglio' shop has a few early customers while the 'gelateria' is closed. Most ice-cream shops close in winter for their annual holiday!

I bump into a fellow dog walker who has just been to the dog park next to the shared communal gardens, an area tended by the inhabitants with flowering plants, fruit trees and a vegetable garden. On a previous visit, I had been saddened to notice the reported theft of a tree. The place is open to all. Who would do that?

My shopping bags are weighing me down a little. Time to hurry home. The juggler has moved on from his post at the traffic lights. Too cold? Or maybe he's earned enough for a warm mug of hot chocolate.

Lentils

"Lentils?!" I exclaimed, a touch puzzled. I associated lentils with cheap student meals: little lumps of brown in a bland broth. 

"My mother's lentil soup is delicious," said my friend. I was skeptical. 

"But why lentils?"

"Lentils symbolise prosperity. The more you eat the richer you'll be in the new year."

Lentils and a sausage (cotechino) or stuffed pig's trotter (stinco di maiale) was the traditional dish for New Year's Eve. 

So what could I do but try it? I boiled the lentils and the sausage as indicated on various packet instructions. It all looked, well, rather uninviting. It was. The lentils were soggy and had a distinct earthiness to them. The sausage had an unappealing puddle of fat leaking from it. I ate a few mouthfuls and gave up. Nobody could be that desperate for wealth.

I asked around a bit more. It seemed I had used the wrong type of lentils. Now those grown on the plains around Norcia and Castelluccio were the ones to use. The cotechino could be enhanced with a little mostarda, which isn't mustard, but candied fruit in a spicy syrup. It looked like just not-the-thing to have with meat.

Traditional: cotechino, lentils and mostarda

But I gave it another try. The lentils were definitely tasty but the cotechino? Let's say greasy sausage and sweet spicy syrup are not a marriage made in heaven - though a lot of Italians would swear otherwise. 

 It turns out the whole traditional New Year's Eve menu is geared towards prosperity in the new year. The lentils because they are round, flat and vaguely golden in hue represent coins. The fatty meat symbolizes abundance. The meal is then rounded off with grapes to ensure frugality with the new found wealth. 
 

lentil lasagna

However, as I peruse my food magazines, looking for a new take on old lentils, I realise that I may not be the only person who finds the New's Year Eve menu a tad dull. My eye is caught by the picture of little nests of filo pastry with dainty spoonfuls of lentils in them and cubes of cotecchino atop. It looks nice - maybe without the sausage? But would such a small quantity of lentils bring me the desired prosperity?

First words: ragazzi, ragazze

Turn back the clock, eighteen years: it’s summer. It’s hot. I pace in front of the blackboard. I hate the thing, after three hours I’m covered in chalk dust. Back and forth I go and wonder where my students are. They file in, in their camouflage gear , greens and khakis. Twenty conscripts entering the quonset hut for their obligatory English lesson. They don’t want to be here. Do I?

There is only one window, at the back of the room and the sun is beaming through it. I can make out a bobbing sea of heads but nothing else with the light shining in my eyes. I beam, the not-quite-yet-perfected stage smile: “Ciao ragazzi!”. One of the few phrases I know in Italian. The more enthusiastic among them answer, “’ello teacheerrr.”

Roll on to 2016, it’s lunchtime and I’m sitting in reception.  Head office calls: “Are any of the ragazze there?” asks Clara in her cherpy voice, just too high pitched to be genuine. I pause. Ragazze (girls)? I know who she means so I say: “No, they’re at lunch.” 

September, the month when we do the level testing. I’m whiling away the time in the staff room when one of the secretaries  calls me “there’s a ragazza in reception waiting to do her test.”  Mentally I imagine a child then dismiss that as children are called ‘bambini’. So, I think, a young teen, maybe a university student? I round the corner and face a woman whose girl-hood is long past.  

Have I reached the land of eternal youth? 

The term ‘ragazzi’ can simply mean ‘guys’  as in ‘hey, guys’ which was the use I made of it back in the days when I was going from army base to army base, entertaining  (i.e. teaching)the conscripts. The Italian military didn’t know what to do with them so English lessons. The following year obligatory conscription was done away with.

The term ‘ragazzi’ or ‘ragazze’  (singular: ragazzo or ragazza) seems applicable to everyone provided the interlocutor is older, or considers themselves in some way ‘superior’. This last is in itself a hard concept to assess as it is often a figment of the speaker’s imagination.

University professors may call exams, forget to cancel and not turn up. The next session for that exam will be in six months’ time. Never mind,  the ragazzi (university sudents) who have studied for it, stressed over it, will understand. Company bosses may forget to cancel meetings, never mind the ragazzi, their employees, won’t (can’t) complain.

Many people consider it a friendly gesture, there’s nothing wrong with calling a group of adults ‘ girls’ and ‘boys’ whatever their age. But  it is also a not-so-subtle belittling. The language makes sure people are kept in their places.  

Italy is an ageist country. Magazine articles have the ages of the people in brackets beside their names. Much debate goes on about the relative youth or not, of public figures, with the attendant comments on their appearance, even more markedly so if a woman (ragazza) is being talked about. 

At job interviews age is mentioned alongside other topics which in many countries are considered inappropriate. 

Then at a certain point in a persons life the notion that age confers automatic respect comes into play. Thus, the indignant, “how dare you say that to me. How dare you speak to a person of my age in such a way.” Never mind the speaker may only be a few years older. Never mind that the person has done nothing to deserve respect.

I’m looking forward to playing that card!